


Where Loyalties Lie

by Aelys_Althea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Captivation, Dancing, Dark, Dark Magic, F/M, Femme Fatale, Friendship, Future AU, Gen, Goblet of Fire AU, Harry's a little bit of a bitch, Loyalties, OOC!Harry, Obsessions, Political warfare, Secrets, Torture, Violence (magical), Voldemort Wins, four years later, grey!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 170,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a flash, the winner of the Triwizard Tournament appeared before the audience, cup in hand. Alone. In but an instant he was crying for the boy he'd left behind.<br/>Cedric managed to escape the deathly curses of Voldemort and his men, a narrow escape that cost Harry Potter his own. But Cedric hasn't given up on the boy who had sacrificed himself for him. Years later, he is determined to find Harry and right the wrong that has since unbalanced the world with the return of one Tom Riddle. If only he could find a glimmer of hope to promise that the boy he sought was still even alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost and Damned

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: All rights belong, inevitably, to JK Rowling. This is not my world - unfortunately - nor my original characters - also unfortunately - even if the divergence is entirely mine, both the good and the bad parts. I make no profit from this story.
> 
> As a WARNING, not so much as a trigger or anything, I feel like I have to add. 1) Harry is kind of (very) OOC. I feel that in this case it is justified, but I just had to mention it because I know this annoys people sometimes. And 2) this story contains one trope in particular that I know is often cause for distress and/or annoyance in some people. I can't really say what it is because that would be a massive spoiler for the stoyline but... it's not dirty, gritty, violent or sexual, but just so you know. If particularly sensitive to these sorts of things, maybe steer clear. If you'd like to double check what this spoiler is, take a look at the notes at the end of chapter 4..

The Triwizard Tournament could hardly be deemed a spectator event. With the exception of perhaps the First Task, there was little for the audience to actually observe as they waited with baited breath for any sign of their competitors. Peering across the stagnant surface of the Black Lake or up at the towering twists of evergreen hedge that formed the foundations of the Third Task maze was hardly what many had in mind when contemplating the trials their champions would face. Enthusiasm slowly slipped into boredom as rigid alertness gradually became a trial to maintain indefinitely.

As such, it was no surprise that when a competitor appeared, there was exaggerated exuberance and animated chatter immediately bursting from the otherwise ominously hushed grandstands. At least, that had been the reaction at the Second Task. The appearance of contestants from the maze was somewhat less… triumphant.

Fleur Delacour was the first to appear in the Third Task. When the huddle of witches and wizards gradually drew nearer towards her abrupt arrival, excited whispers hushed to frigid silence, so quiet that the muffled footfalls of the medi-wizards and witches hastening across the grass could be heard like the resounding thumps of a booming drum. Eyes drew towards the stretcher elevated magically in their midst and gasps were emitted by more than just the Beauxbatons students. The girl was filthy, covered in a thick layer of dirt and leaves, hair pulled from its precise tail to frizz messily around her wan, slack face. Ragged breathing heaved her chest and her fingers twitched with nervous flickers as though attempting to settle upon something. Yet it was her eyes that held the greatest horror; wide and staring, there was a faintly crazed light beneath upwelling tears, beneath the pain that was the only indication of her discomfort.

The swift departure of the emergency response squad left only a throbbing, foreboding shadow in its wake. Not a soul shifted on their seats, not even a friend of the French girl rising to chase after the departed champion. Dread swirled in the pits of all stomachs. Excitement was replaced with fear. Something had happened in the maze, something confronted that had been unseen in previous Tasks.

Viktor Krum was the second competitor to arise from the depths of the maze. Though no noise save muted whispers graced the waiting audience, the overwhelming silence that accompanied his arrival was distinct. A similarly huddling group of healers surrounded the Durmstrang boy, but anxious glimpses peering through the ring of dark robes and over bowed heads showed him to be in a state resembling that of the Beauxbatons girl. The urgency in the mature wizards and witches hastened Krum's departure more swiftly even than Fleur's rapid retreat. Once more the spectators were left in absolute silence. Dread hung like a heavy, descending cloud over every onlooker, only intensified by the frantic pacing and muffled conversations of presiding staff. Even Dumbledore, the ever-constant pillar of stability, stared with ice-cold ferocity at the maze. Something was definitely not right.

Nightfall gradually crept into the Scottish air, chilling the spring breeze into teeth-chattering discomfort. Feet shuffled, the only sound from the waiting crowd. Guts clenched as the indefinite wait dragged on, overriding the hunger that remained unsated despite the profit fast-food vendors could have turned. Said vendors fidgeted in similar foreboding, eyes flickering between the increasingly frantic marching of Hogwarts staff and presiding officers. The Hogwarts Headmaster, accompanied by a handful of his trusted professors, had disappeared with the sun, withdrawing with almost magical speed along the perimeter of the maze with wands raised and colourful bursts of magic erupting periodically into the air. No one had heard a breath of them since.

Nightfall had well and truly set in, the vicious bite of the cold setting teeth through even the thickest clothing, before the stagnation was finally broken. A resounding crack like the limb falling from a tree broke through the silence of the waiting crowd. A split second later, a figure clad in grass-stained and filthy robes tumbled across the empty grounds at the entrance to the maze. The force of his sudden appearance broke the boy from the faintly glowing cup that had been clasped in his hands, flinging it to bounce with a lobbing spring towards the grandstands. Nothing moved, no one dared even breathe as they waited – for something, anything, some glimmer of life to shift the crumpled figure on the grass. It could have been a minute or an hour, but finally the onlookers were released from their spellbound state as a pained groan split the air.

Out of nowhere, as if by Apparation, Dumbledore was striding across the open clearing before the maze and dropping to his knees beside the boy. Moments later, a group of medi-wizards and witches bustled after him, accompanied by the running figures of Amos and Bronwyn Diggory. Questioning whispers and sighs of relief broke through the masses as speculation and reassurances filled the emptiness left by the sudden appearance of the Hogwarts champion; the cup was here, the Task was over. Only one competitor was absent and, though it was uncertain where he was at present, surely the conclusion of the tournament would result in him being forcefully removed from the maze.

"No! No no _no no NO_!"

A scream ripped through the air. Horror unlike any that had graced the ears of the audience split through their whispers. Suddenly, the huddle of figures around the fallen champion burst apart like a popped bubble and a scrambling figure launched from their cloaked depths towards the grandstands.

As he skidded on his knees before the Triwizard Cup, Cedric Diggory's features finally became identifiable. As filthy as his fellow champions, the boy had a crazed glaze to his eyes that surpassed even that of Fleur's. The effect was only intensified by the mad array of spiking hair atop his head, the erratic jerks of his motions as he dragged himself towards the discarded trophy.

Swinging his drawn wand at the luminescent cup, the Hufflepuff boy cursed fluently and with uncharacteristic ferocity as he gestured at the inanimate object. When no change occurred, he forsook his wand and simply hefted the cup into his arms, shaking it like a child would rattle a gift-wrapped box, though with desperation and horror replacing innocent joy.

"Come on, come on! No, dammit, please…no no no… come on!"

Not a person, not even his slowly trailing entourage of healers and professors, could tear their eyes from the fit of madness that seemed to have gripped the boy. The raging abuse Cedric rained upon the trophy continued with increasing brutality. Only when he had begun slamming the fragile stand forcefully onto the compact dirt before him did Amos rush to his side.

"Ced, what are you –? Stop, son, what are you doing?"

The boy panted heavily, gasps heaving into sobs as his eyes filled with tears. "…go back. I have to go back!"

"Back? Cedric, what do you -?"

"I have to go back! I left him, he made me leave, and he's there all by himself! I can't –" The tirade fumbled into unintelligible cussing as the Cedric's pounding continued, wand still in hand and attempting to cast once more while his other fist rained heavy blows on the stylised metal. Amos, Bronwyn, and everyone around him for that matter, seemed horrified and at a loss as to how to proceed. They could only watch as the boy worked himself into hysterical sobs, the oversized cup before him as lifeless and unresponsive as a broken doll.

Finally, as though concluding his intervention now necessary, Dumbledore stepped towards the champion. Sinking to his knees once more with an ease that bellied his age, the Hogwarts Headmaster placed wrinkled hands over Cedric's trembling wrists. Whether by magic or physical force, the beating the Hufflepuff inflicted abruptly ceased.

"Cedric. Tell me."

No other words were necessary. In fact, had the headmaster attempted to soothe the boy, he would likely have only intensified his distress. Instead, Cedric raised his head, forlornness down-turning his lips and tightening his face. Seeing the steadfast determination in the headmaster's intent gaze, he suddenly slumped into near collapse. Amos started forward, wrapping an arm around his son's shoulders to support his weakened frame.

"Albus, I must take him to the hospital wing immediately." His fear and warranted worry added force and demand to the his tone, yet Amos had eyes only for his slumping son.

Dumbledore nodded in agreement, accepting the fatherly concern. "Indeed, Amos. However, I must question him briefly before you remove him to tend to his needs."

"No! Absolutely not –"

"Amos. Do not fight me on this matter." _For you shall be removed otherwise_ , was spoken by Dumbledore's unwavering gaze, the flat determination that brooked no argument. "The sooner you allow this, the sooner he can be tended to."

A tick twitched the corner of Amos's eye, the only indication that indignation accompanied his cowed submission. Despite his evident desires, he bowed his head, shifting to grip his son's shoulders more firmly yet making no motion to retreat.

Dumbledore nodded his head in acknowledgement of the man's acceptance before turning towards Cedric once more. "Cedric. Tell me."

Cedric's frantic energy seemed to have evaporated into weak exhaustion. He barely raised his head to meet his Dumbledore's gaze, his face clouded in pain far deeper than the physical kind. "Harry. I have to go back, to get him, to help him…"

"Where is Harry?"

"The graveyard. The cup… it was a portkey to a graveyard. I don't know where, but Harry… he's in danger. I don't know what they'll do, they didn't say!" A shadow of his earlier distress coloured Cedric's tone once more, worry for his fellow champion tingeing his words. It was a desperate plea, a demand for assistance.

Brow furrowing, Dumbledore drew closer to stare at the boy with even greater intensity. His bowed figure hid Cedric from the curious onlookers peering wide-eyed from the stand, creating an imposing wall that caused even the officials to draw back. The lesser, or perhaps more mentally stable, were understandably cowed. Cedric merely stared back in desperation. "What graveyard? Tell me what happened."

Drawing a shuddering breath, swallowing thickly, Cedric leaned towards the headmaster, keeping his words from even his father. "He's back. He Who Must Not Be Named is back. I saw it, I swear, Headmaster. He lives and he breathes, he walks and he kills. I saw it with my very own eyes." He clenched those eyes closed as though attempting to wipe the image from his mind.

Had he maintained his eye contact with Dumbledore, even he would have likely shied back, sinking onto his haunches more deeply in the same way Amos huddled upon himself. A feverish glow of anger brightened the vivid blue of Dumbledore's gaze, apparent even in the darkness of night. Dangerous would have been the most accurate description of the man's transformation.

"And Harry?"

Cedric visibly twitched. "Harry, he… You-Know-Who used him for the revival. Or at least You-Know-Who's accomplice did. Tied him up to a headstone, used his blood… I was petrified, I couldn't move, but I saw it all. I saw…I saw him be reborn." Horror rang in his tone, his breath shortening. "It was – I can't –"

"Calm yourself, Cedric. Tell me, how did you escape?"

Cedric twitched once more, shuddering. "I wasn't… I don't really know how it happened. I was too far away to hear most of it. I don't think they even remembered I was there. It was… it was probably the only reason they didn't kill me." He swallowed again, grounding himself as he gained a semblance of steadiness. His voice hardened slightly, coming more rapidly as he gathered his thoughts. "Something happened, between Him and Harry. They talked. Then He released him and… He started… started casting spells at Harry. Shooting at him but not to kill him. _Crucio_ hit Harry at least once, knocked him down. He said… He screamed it so loudly I could hear Him… said that he wouldn't kill Harry, not now. That he had a better use for him.

"There was… one spell that was different though. I don't know what it was, I don't… I can't…" Once more, the Cedric took a deep breath, collecting himself and raising his hands to his head. Fingers raked his forehead as though seeking to grasp at his memories. Dumbledore waited with the patience of a statue, moving just a little on his knees as he waited for his student to continue. "Harry and You-Know-Who shot at each other at the same time and their wands sort of… connected, with a beam of light. These ghosts, they came out of You-Know-Who's wand and two, two of them spoke to Harry. I don't know who they were, but I think Harry might have recognised them. At one point, they, all of them, they turned and looked at me. I saw Harry nod and say something then suddenly the spell snapped. I think one of his followers, one of the Death Eaters, they might have done something."

Cedric's tone had grown suddenly monotonously flat, yet somehow this instead emphasised the keeness out his emotions rather than masking them. He recited the story as though narrating the events as they occurred before his eyes. Perhaps they did. "Everything happened at once. Harry shot me with a _Finite Incantatum_ and I was free to move. He yelled something at me, but I couldn't make it out. Everything was happening so fast, and suddenly they were all running at me, at Harry. I could hardly even move, I was so scared, I…" A glimmer of tears turned Cedric's eyes glassy, threatening to spill forth. "I didn't try to run. I couldn't, not even when the Death Eater's came running straight for me. I watched it all, I watched one of them grab Harry and pin him down. He didn't look scared, though – I don't know how he wasn't scared – but just watched me as the Death Eaters charged towards me. It was like he didn't even really care about himself; he was just worried for me.

"I don't know, something about that made me move. I started to run towards him, through the Death Eaters coming for me if I had to, but before I could even make it halfway Harry pointed his wand at the Cup and it came flying towards me and…"

Tears finally broke through Cedric's monotony, cascading down his cheeks. Covering his eyes with one hand, he shook in great, heaving sobs. Trembles shook his shoulders until his father finally wrapped him in a sturdy embrace. Amos stared wide-eyed up at Dumbledore, having heard at least part of his son's retelling.

Dumbledore met his gaze gravely. "Amos, Cedric is in dire need of healing. If you would, please take him to see the medi-staff."

Nodding in agreement at the Headmaster's suggestion, Amos rapidly rose to his feet, dragging Cedric with him. Stumbling, he tugged his son towards the Healer's pavilion masked by the darkness of night, his wife appearing at Cedric's other side in an instant and muttering words of comfort the entire way.

Turning towards his onlooking fellows, Dumbledore let his eyes slip closed. If what Cedric had said was accurate then the Wizarding world was set to change on monstrous proportions, and not at all for the better. Worse yet, the one person who would provide the lynchpin in the outcome of the oncoming war was in the hands of the enemy. Guilt and grief nearly overwhelmed Dumbledore as he contemplated the sorry state of Harry Potter. Cedric had said that the boy would not be killed; his single statement to the fact had been quite sure of the fact. But surely… there was only so long that one could survive in the torturously sadistic hands of Voldermort and his Death Eaters.

The boy wouldn't stand a chance. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was lost.

The blow hit Dumbledore harder than he would ever have expected. He had always attempted to maintain an emotional detachment from Harry; he knew the role he would once have to play given the nature of his survival from Voldermort's first attack. Even so, Harry had somehow wormed his way into Dumbledore's lonely, desiccated heart. To have that warmth torn away so suddenly, so brutally, was almost more than he could bear. Yet bear it he must.

Opening his eyes once more, Dumbledore gazed upon his silent onlookers. From the crowd of anxiously waiting students and families to the Hogwarts professors and Triwizard officials, everyone seemed balanced precariously in wait, breathless for his words and desperately hoping to allay their fears and uncertainties.

Turning first towards the grandstand, eyes flickering up the tiered seating to capture the faces of every observer, Dumbledore spoke with a resounding boom. 'The Triwizard Tournament has reached its close. Everyone shall proceed towards Hogwarts in search of meals and beds. You are dismissed.'

Resolutely ignoring the buzz of conversation, of questions and pronounced indignation that erupted, Dumbledore turned towards his inner circle standing in formal preparedness behind him. The Ministry officials edged quietly around their closed group, easing themselves from listening distance from the militaristic preparedness that was straightening backs and setting jaws of Dumbledore's trusted associates. Lowering his voice, Dumbledore spoke in grave tones. "It is as we feared. It has begun."

A smattering of sharp inhalations met his words. Reactions ranged from muted horror to brief incomprehension that gradually seeped into understanding and determination. Within moments, each witch and wizard had composed themselves once more. As though simply informed of some mildly concerning developments, they awaited their orders.

Dumbledore obliged. "Alastor, alert the Order. I believe it is time to revive the resistance. Arthur, if you would inform those within your network, I seek a meeting three days hence. Grimmauld Place will be adequate to suit our needs." Nodding, the red-haired Weasley turned on his heel, quickly departing the scene with Alastor's hobbling step hastening alongside him with surprising speed. "Kingsley, I would see that you seek your own assistants and begin preparations within the Ministry; Cornelius is unlikely to respond positively to this incident and show as much reluctance to initiate change as he is want to do." The towering wizard bowed in acceptance and Apparated directly from the scene.

Facing only his Professors, Dumbledore continued issuing his orders. "Pomona, if you would kindly seek the Diggorys and provide any additional assistance and assurances they may require; you are, of course, Cedric's head of house. Filius, please kindly see to supervising the students. Many will likely be in a great amount of distress. Seek the assistance of Poppy for Calming Draughts where necessary." Both nodded and departed immediately. "Minerva, Maxine and Igor are likely to have questions that neither has the patience to await an answer for. If you would, please inform them of my momentary absence, after which I will assist them in any way I am able." Minerva's eye twitched slightly but she too bowed her acknowledgement.

Dumbledore turned towards his final confidant. "Severus." Flickering eyes to peer at the dark shadow that masked the potions master's face, he shared a wordless conversation with the man. Snape nodded his head in acceptance, only the slight curl of his lip indicating any distaste for his orders, before he too Apparated directly from darkened shadow of the maze.

Shifting his focus from the afterimage of the potions master, the elderly wizard raised an eyebrow at his Deputy's continued presence. Each of the other professors had disappeared in all haste upon receiving their orders. "Minerva?"

Worry creased the woman's brow, pursing lips that threatened to tremble with suppressed emotion. "Albus, what of Harry Potter?"

Dumbledore sighed. A hand rose wearily to push the half-moon spectacles further up his nose. "We have only Cedric's word to follow, Minerva, but if he interprets correctly then Harry may still be alive."

"Whatever would _He_ wish to keep him for? You-Know-Who has been after Harry's life since he was a baby."

Shaking his head, Dumbledore sighed again. "I know not, Minerva. And yet I fear the worst. If not death, then…' The flicker of suppressed horror in the Gryffindor Head's eyes spoke volumes of her understanding, of the extensiveness of her imagination. "I assure you, I will do my utmost to search for him."

The witch before him showed remarkable restraint by not pointing out he failed to assure her he would 'find' him. "And what of Harry's friends? They will undoubtedly be beside themselves."

"Indeed." Dumbledore nodded his head sagely. "Minerva, if you would be so kind, provide any assistance and explanation required without revealing the severity of the situation. They are entitled to at least partial truth."

The witch nodded in agreement. Sadness at the anticipated panic of her students evidently increased the strain of stilling her trembling lips. "And you, Albus?"

The elderly man bowed his head at her question. "I seek the graveyard."

A hazy pre-dawn glow tinged the sky, faintly illuminating tombstones and impressive statues, from weeping angels to macabre cupids, cloaked reapers to elegant harpists. The cemetery spread as far as the eye could see in every direction. It was ancient, and held residents of family lines long slipped into oblivion beneath its cracked, musky soil.

Before a particularly large statue of an angel-winged reaper, an elderly man stared fixedly at a ring of scorch marks upon the ground at his feet. Smudged footprints danced around the streaks of blackness, as though carefully avoiding the tainted ground. Dark splatters coated the feeble attempts at ground cover in excess, though in the insufficient light vision was inadequate in determining its nature.

The wizard held a wand aloft in his hand, though he had not used it for hours. Attempts at seeking signs of passage, any faint pathway that would indicate their relocation, had faded swiftly with the departure of those who had artfully redesigned the clearing before the reaper. To follow in the footsteps of any Apparation required a complex tracing enchantment that must be conducted within minutes of said Apparation. The man had not been fast enough.

Hovering above a particularly dark splatter on the soil, the elderly wizard lowered his wand to point vertically at the darkness. A soundless flick of his wand and a ghost-like figure appeared on the ground before him, colourless save for the faintly blue mistiness of memory apparitions. The figure, a young, skinny boy barely creeping into pubescence, curled protectively in upon himself, a blood-splattered arm protruding from the huddle and watering the parched soil with scarlet tears. The ghost lasted only moments before disappearing like dissipating smoke.

"Oh, Harry…" The words were barely a sigh, a whisper to break the silence. The man stood in silent grief, allowing his face to crumple with the absence of onlookers. A moment later, without even raising his wand, a whip-crack snapped through the air and the he disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you liked this first chapter or just have anything else to say, please leave a comment to let me know what you think. Thanks!


	2. I'll Reach You

_~Four Years Later~_

The page crackled faintly, causing Hermione to wince as she turned the faded parchment of the ancient tome. The smell of dust hung thickly in the air, unsurprising given the distinct lack of windows and almost reverential regard the British Ministry Archives incited, causing doors to remain locked vacuum tight at all times. After nearly a year as an inferior-apprentice to Victoria Withersby of the Wizengamot, Hermione had only entered the depths of the echoing rooms once before. Despite the wealth of knowledge lying untouched amidst the seemingly endless shelving, she was reluctant to venture into the darkness, especially alone. The discomforting suspicion that she would never find her way back out again was a distinct inhibitor.

Sighing, and nearly coughing up a lung as she inhaled a mouthful of dust, Hermione eased closed the flimsy hardback cover of the creaking monstrosity that posed as a book. Nothing. In the entire history of the Gambit family, she couldn't find even a single mention of a wizard who was less than half-blood. Given the new laws in place as of nineteen ninety-six, such meant that Elias Gambit could not be dismissed from service in the Ministry within a twelve month period of hire. Such was the way of the Rottier government, the newest Minister for Magic a converted Dark Arts practitioner; though not in so many words, it was impossible to overlook the fact that purebloods were afforded extensively more opportunities than Muggleborns and even half-bloods. It was sad, but at least the Ministry had limited its public aversion to their less 'pure' fellows at least a little. Still, the blatant discrimination in the supposedly objective legal system triggered a distasteful bitterness on the tongue.

Rising from her seat, Hermione struggled to balance the towering pile of dusty volumes in her arms, wobbling slightly under the weight before edging through the library shelves and replacing said volumes. She loved her studies under Withersby, truly, even inferior as her apprenticeship was, but the more time she spent learning of the subtle discrepancies in the Ministry's laws the greater her disgust grew.

Still, Hermione could hardly complain. Everyone supposed, when the realisation of Voldemort's muted return was common knowledge, that genocide would be an unavoidable outcome for Muggleborns and, irrational as it sounded, Muggles as a whole. It was astonishing and blessedly relieving to realise that the Dark Lord of the past had honed down his bloodlust to severe and disdainful disgust. Disregarding the legal discrepancies between wizards and witches of less 'pure' blood, there was little obvious change.

Hermione could only be grateful for that fact.

Now, with a firm foothold in Wizarding society, Voldemort's cohort held significant sway over the political agenda. The Riddle family, as his public name was reverted to, posed as little more than an exceptionally wealthy and influential new-blood family. Though ironic in that Tom Riddle himself was a speculated half-blood, such did not dissuade him from his hypocritical tendencies. It was apparent to anyone with minor intelligence and the inclination to look beneath the simpering pleasantries of the Ministry officials that the influence of what was effectively Royal Wizarding Family stretched like slick, dark tentacles into every department.

It would have been impressive, had it not been so horrifying, to observe how in just four years – three if one exempted the year of wary inactivity – Voldemort and his followers had gained such a foothold. It made Hermione shudder to consider the changes they had wrought. As a calm surface often hid a raging current, so too did the intricacies of the political system roil in havoc behind a concealing curtain. She was only grateful that she could maintain her study, her position and her life without merciless dismissal.

Stretching to stack the final tome into its seat on tiptoes, Hermione barely suppressed her relief from expressing itself in a dance of delight as she drew from the Archives. Not even mulling over the tarnished Wizarding Legal System could weigh her down with the prospect of escape. The briefcase of notes and magically-printed copies banged uncomfortably against her knee with every step. Within moments she sunk into the blessed light of the Upper Floors that, while not nearly the blissful warmth of direct sunlight, held miles on the dank mustiness of the library depths.

Sturdy shoes clicking on polished wooden floors, Hermione passed quickly from the sealed inner depths of the Archives and made her way towards the exit. With nod to the young man at the front desk and a glance at the clock above his head, she stepped through the revolving doors into the summer air. Twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Lunch was scheduled for two o'clock, leaving her with plenty of time to Apparate home, dress, pick up Ginny on the way, and make it to the familiar little restaurant just outside of Eastern Diagon Alley. Perfect timing.

* * *

 

"Hermione! Ginny!"

A familiar baritone called across the sprawl of half-filled tables outside Giovanni's Diner, the quaint Italian restaurant relatively busy even past regular lunching hours. Turning, Hermione felt a smile draw across her face identical to Ginny's as she spied the two Aurors lazing at a clean-polished table. Well, one lazed, while the other maintained his naturally charismatic posture with ease, swirling an iced lemon water between long fingers.

The contrast between Ron Weasley and Cedric Diggory would always strike Hermione, despite the similarity of their careers. While Ron tended to wandering carelessly and aimlessly through life, Cedric was rigid in his hard-working attitude and motivation. Though they'd both gravitated towards the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Cedric had risen rapidly and with flying colours towards the heights he could reach, the very pinnacle one could attain at his age while Ron climbed slowly and with little inclination towards seeking greater status in the Auror Department. Not that he was not an adept Defence Wizard; he simply lacked the motivation.

Easing her way between the hard-backed chairs of the outdoor sitting area, Hermione followed in Ginny's wake. They always sat in the same seats, at the same table. Such had become a biannual tradition for nigh on four years in the summer and winter holidays to meet for lunch, more religiously kept since Cedric had finished school years before the rest of them. Not that they didn't keep in touch as close friends do, but the consistency of their meetings, always as a group, grounded their friendship more firmly.

"Afternoon, ladies." Ron smiled easily, nodding his head at his sister and winking at Hermione. Hermione simply rolled her eyes in reply. So he was in a flirtatious mood today. She could hardly keep up with his view of their relationship, whether he saw her as much as a sister as Ginny or more as a potential lover. The thought in itself was disturbing enough, even disregarding the fact that they had done their time dating and had since dropped in and out of such as frequently as the weather changed. It was all rather exhausting.

For her part, Ginny ignored her brother's greeting and beamed instead at the slightly Cedric. Despite being in a relationship with Neville Longbottom for nigh on two years now, Ginny habitually turned to putty whenever Cedric turned a smile upon her. Not that she would ever act upon the temptation, but even so. It was a generally acknowledged fact that Cedric was the pick of the litter of the N.E.W.T students three years past, good-looks, charisma and general amicability not overshadowed by the fact that he had won the Triwizard Cup. That he pointedly overlooked any attempts at initiating a relationship was a meaningless hurdle to potential pursuers.

"Cedric. It's been a while," Ginny said, slipping into the seat beside him and leaving the other beside Ron for Hermione. She immediately set to attacking him with rapid-fire questions. "How've you been? Work keeping you busy? I haven't heard from you for ages. Fill me in on the latest and greatest with the McNairs, would you? You left me hanging over the summer break. Or the Zabini's. Oh, and the Malfoy family. I'm dying to know the nitty-gritty details of their latest dirty secrets. The _Prophet_ says they're in upheaval about something or other."

Ron gave a disgruntled grunt. "Argh, come on, Ginny, can you keep the twenty questions till after we've eaten? We've been waiting forever for you two to show up and I'm starving." To punctuate his mock complaint, Ron's stomach growled loudly. Hermione and Cedric suppressed grins while Ginny scowled.

"We're only ten minutes late, Ron. And you'll hardly starve to death." She complied with his suggestion, however, and within moments a waitress drifted by, collected their orders, and in an impossibly short waiting period they were served with steaming bowls of spaghetti and oven roasted pizza. Hermione took a moment to appreciate Wizarding wait-service before sinking her teeth into a triangle of cheesy Napolitana.

"Mm, that hits the spot," Ron groaned in appreciation as he slurped a coil of spaghetti between his lips, oblivious to the tomato sauce that splattered his maroon jumper. Cedric smiled, shaking his head at his friends delight before once more rolling up the golden-trimmed green sleeves of his robe. They were elegantly cut, fitting of Cedric, and brought out the gold in his eyes.

Nearly snorting at her own thoughts, Hermione shook herself out of her reverie. It was more than a little embarrassing that she'd noticed as much. "So tell us, Cedric, how has work been? You're always moving at a much faster pace than I am; its certainly more exciting. I sometimes wonder if I went into the wrong department."

Cedric turned his smile towards her, dusting his lips with a napkin before speaking. "What, and deprive that librarian receptionist of your visits? Never, Hermione. Even I've heard he's fond of you.'

"What?" Ron exclaimed, nearly drowning out Ginny's burst of laughter and Hermione's blushing groan. "What receptionist? What's this?"

"Oh, calm down, Ron," Ginny said in a feeble attempt at placation. "The boy just fancies her. I'm pretty sure he's only a fifth year anyway. It's just a summer job."

"How am I the last person to hear of this?' Ron muttered indignantly, but his downturned gaze and a stab into his half-empty bowl to scoop up another spoonful indicated he was none too disgruntled. Hermione released a silent sigh. Considering they were no longer dating – at least not at the moment – Ron was being ridiculously jealous.

"But really, Cedric, fill me in on the gossip. What's new?" Ginny said, picking up where Hermione had left off. It was common knowledge that the unfiltered version of the pureblood scandals passed through the Auror offices. Acquiring such knowledge was the difficulty. However, Cedric rarely withheld delicious titbits from his friends. Neither did Ron, but he often tended to be about as accurate in his translations as the final member of a Chinese Whispers train. Cedric was more reliable and, though Hermione suspected such gossip seemed nothing if not tedious, he obliged Ginny's requests.

"Hm," Cedric hummed contemplatively, tapping his fork to his chin. "Well, Draco Malfoy is apparently in the process of courting a girl the Darker Wizarding circles. She's above his station, though, so I'm not sure how reputable such rumours are. I've also heard the eldest Fererra girl was going to Turkey for –"

"Wait, what? Back up. _Malfoy's_ getting married?" Ginny looked like a child in a candy shop, her smile growing predatory.

"Hardly _getting_ married," Cedric corrected. "He's in the process of pursing, I'd say. And not going particularly well, or so I've heard."

"Doesn't it make you just quiver in anticipation." Ginny turned her delighted gaze towards Hermione and Ron. "Draco Malfoy, chasing a skirt and failing at it. Hah!"

Even Hermione couldn't suppress a grin of amusement at their schoolyard nemesis's failed attempts. Ron showed an uncanny resemblance to his sister as he shared her face-splitting grin. 'Well, the girl's obviously got some brains in her head. Who is she?'

Cedric shrugged. "She's a distant relative of the Lestrange line, I think, but that's not her surname. It's Belaire. Salomé Belaire."

"Salomé?" Ron winced. "Bloody hell, what a name. Poor girl."

"Salomé's a biblical name, Ron," Hermione reprimanded half-heartedly. "A character that holds significant power, if her characters actions are to be believed. That's hardly something to be sorry for." She cocked her head slightly as she considered. She felt she'd heard of the name before but... "She must have some credentials to be seen as an apt suitor for the Malfoy heir. And you said she's above his station?"

Cedric nodded. "She's one of Riddle's Apprentices."

Ginny sank back in her chair with an "ahhh" of understanding and the revival of memory. Riddle's Apprentices were a coveted cohort. "Now we're getting somewhere. Anyone even remotely related to the Riddle name has a foot in the door with just about anything. I wonder how she landed herself that position? Riddle's nothing if not a stickler for the unique."

"And she's related to Lestranges," Ron added. "She's got to have some perks to being tied to those nutters." Hermione sent another frown direction for his crudeness – which he ignored – though she couldn't help nodding her agreement. "What's she like?"

Shaking his head, Cedric took a sip from his lemon water before continuing. "I don't know. I haven't really heard much of her, to tell you the truth. Even less than the rest of the Apprentices. She's recently come of age though. It's probably half of the reason why the Malfoys are so keen to integrate her into their family. But besides that, you know what that means."

Hermione exchanged a questioning frown with Ron and Ginny for a moment, uncomprehending. Then Ron uttered an exaggerated groan. "Oh bloody hell, you've got to be kidding me."

"What? What is it?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow as she turned towards him.

"I completely forgot about Riddle's pampered little Apprentice Graduations. We haven't had one for a while." Ron pouted in continued exaggerated yet nonetheless very real annoyance. "When they come of age – or reach their 'superiority' or whatever – there's a massive party, over the top extravagant and filled with Dark wizards and witches getting drunk and high and generally making a mess of things. And guess who's on supervisor duty." As though Hermione and Ginny couldn't make the connection for themselves, Ron jerked a thumb at himself and Cedric. "Us lucky Aurors, that's who. Bloody wonderful."

Hermione cringed in heartfelt sympathy and Ginny shook her head. "You'd think that, seeing as their so protective of their secrets and identities and all, Riddle's cronies would tone it down a bit." Scowling, she stabbed an olive viciously with her fork.

"I don't think Dark practitioners have those sort of inhibitions," Cedric said. "I'm just thankful that the Ministry has worked up the nerve to incorporate a learning of the theory behind Dark Arts into the school curriculum rather than just leaving everyone with as little knowledge of the theory as they do Advanced Muggle Mathematics." Hermione nodded her fervent agreement to the sentiment that Ron and Ginny mimics in begrudgingly lesser measures.

"You're assigned to nannying duty then, Cedric?" Ginny asked innocently. "Going undercover for that sort of thing, aren't you?" She cocked her head slightly, turning towards him expectantly. She didn't fool Hermione, however, and clearly Cedric saw through the feigned innocence of her question for his obliging smile.

"Why yes, Ginny. In fact, as it so happens, I am in need of a comrade-in-arms to storm the battlefront with. Are you up for the challenge?"

Ginny frowned. "When you put it like that, it doesn't sound tempting at all. What kind of person uses a war analogy to ask someone on a date?"

"One who is asking said someone who already has a faithful partner that would be distraught at seeing her accept such an invitation," Cedric replied.

"Ah, touché. Alright, Cedric. Arm me up!" Ginny and Cedric shared a chuckle before Cedric offered his affectionate thanks. Hermione observed their playful banter, feeling almost sorry for her friend who Cedric so obviously viewed as a younger sister. Her attention was drawn by a nudge on her elbow and she glanced towards Ron.

"Say, Hermione." Ron rubbed a hand through his hair nervously before raking it through his fringe and scratching his nose. It was a fairly typical display of Ron Weasley Awkwardness. "I'm assigned on this one as well, you know. Um…"

Despite seeing through the display like clear glass, Hermione adopted a curious, oblivious expression and raised her eyebrows. "Yes, Ron?"

"Um. Well, I was wondering… if you didn't have anything else on, of course…" Ron's fingers ran through his hair once more, fluffing his fringe in a wilted semblance of a cowlick. Despite dating on and off for three years, he'd never gotten any better at asking.

Sighing, taking pity on him as she always did, Hermione allowed a smile to touch her lips. "Would you like me to accompany you, Ron?"

Relief spread visibly across Ron's face. "Hermione, you're brilliant. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much that means to me."

"No worries, Ron. Anytime."

A pointed cough broke into their conversation. "Well, that was about the most unnecessarily awkward display I've ever seen. Shall we continue?" Ginny appeared to have swallowed something incredibly chewy and it was only upon observing her more closely that Hermione realised she was actually suppressing a guffaw of laughter. "When is this ceremony thing, Ced?"

"Two weeks from now. I think it's going to be hosted at Malfoy manner, actually. In an attempt get on Belaire's good side I assume."

"Hah, that makes sense. Good luck, Draco. I hope you make an even greater fool of yourself than you already have." By unspoken agreement, Hermione and her friends all raised their glasses at Ginny's words and toasted to Malfoy's demise. Old hatreds died hard.

After a small sip, Cedric was the first to lower his glass. He settled his hands folded on the table before him in a deliberate manner. "Anyway, now that we've got that out of the way. Hermione, how've you been? I haven't seen you for about a month. Anything new?"

Hermione glanced at Cedric over the rim of her glass, ice cubes clinking on her teeth. His expression was passive enough, the question amicable and innocent, but she had known him for too long not to read between the lines.

"Work's been busy. Withersby says it's always busy this time of year, so that's to be expected. But I think I'm getting the hang of the referencing system so that makes sourcing a lot easier. Withersby's great to work under, even if I don't get to see her all that much, but you'd probably know that. She used to work in Magical Law Enforcement until last year, didn't she?'

Cedric nodded, eyes fixing upon her in polite attention, but Hermione knew she was just skirting the subject now. Cedric knew it too. She thought even Ron knew, from the sombre expression that had cast a shadow over his face.

"As for the… other matter. Not a peep, Cedric. I'm sorry."

Cedric sighed heavily. A physical force seemed to settle upon his shoulders, slumping them just slightly. Hermione was startled, as always, when she saw the weight grow in magnitude once more, resurfacing and never lost. Guilt, unrelenting guilt that fuelled his determination like timber to a flame, still anchored Cedric heavily in the past. It was a pull that only seemed to grow stronger with time, and it was all because of Harry's disappearance.

Hermione couldn't lie to herself; even after so long, the ache of her best friend's absence was like a physical wound in her chest, barely healed. At times, when she thought of her Harry, the pain would pang so sharply that she would struggle to suppress tears. But Hermione wouldn't cry. She couldn't. She had promised herself, years ago, that unless she had legitimate cause to mourn then she would thrust aside the pity party and focus her energy upon finding a solution. Just sometimes, however, the emotional side of her brain battled the logical and almost overcame it.

Yet even so, despite being Harry's friend before his disappearance, somehow it was Cedric who seemed to have been hit the hardest by what had happened all those years ago. He was pained by Harry's absence in a way that differed from Hermione's, from Ron's and Ginny's. Perhaps it was because he had seen it happen, seen Voldemort's rebirth and been unable to stop it. Perhaps it was just that he truly did feel ridiculously, irrationally guilty that, while he had been thrown a lifeline in the shape of a portkey, Harry had been left behind, stranded, in the grasping hands of an all-too-eager Dark Lord.

Hermione knew Cedric felt guilty. Such was apparent not only from his actions but simply because he had told her directly. Cedric was like that; he didn't mask his feelings or hide his thoughts. He was a firm believer in openness, in forward-thinking and proactivity. Hence, after clawing his way out of his shell of shock, Cedric had launched himself into finding the lost boy who had saved his life.

Ron and Hermione had been astounded at first by his eagerness and resolution in his quest. Cedric had approached them not a week after the Triwizard Tournament's close and laid his desires on the table like a battle plan. He would find Harry, if he had to spend the rest of his life doing so, and he would repay the debt he owed. If, and only if, Harry was found and lay dead before him would he lay his burden aside unfulfilled. Until then, Cedric would dedicate all his efforts to achieving his goal.

Hermione was rendered stunned by Cedric's assertion. The week following Harry's disappearance had seen her a mess of tears, semi-comatose in her bed, and Ron no better. The fact that, as Dumbledore had openly clarified as much at a school assembly, Voldemort had returned and was the one who had taken him from them only deepened that blow. They'd known the Dark Lord had charmed a target upon Harry's back. If left within his clutches, anyone would have as much success in retrieving him alive as reviving the stuffed fowl that adorned the House tables at the mourning feast. Everyone felt the loss of the Boy Who Lived, with perhaps the only exception being those whose families already lay aligned with the Dark Lord. That loss was felt even more keenly now that they knew their saviour was absent at the very time his nemesis had returned.

Cedric was different. Despite the sad acceptance, the resignation that choked even the majority of the Slytherins as they contemplated their dark future, Cedric maintained that all was not lost. Oh, he held no allusions that He Who Must Not Be Named had returned and would in all likelihood overrun the Wizarding world, but he did not mourn Harry's loss. _I was there_ , he professed. _I heard what they said. They aren't going to kill him. And if they won't kill him than there is always a chance of rescue._

Those words, the strength of Cedric's will, have been a soothing balm on the wretched hearts and souls of Harry's friends. Hermione couldn't exactly fathom the nature nor the depth of Cedric's newfound loyalty, only that he felt a keen and unyielding need to save his own rescuer. Cedric maintained time and again that his life had been saved at the sacrifice of Harry's freedom. The loyalty, and the courage, that the Hufflepuff showed could have put any Gryffindor to shame. It was only comparable to his hard-working nature and unerring optimism. How else would he have been sorted into the house of Helga Hufflepuff?

For the next year, his seventh year repeated due to his 'extenuating circumstances', Cedric effectively dedicated his life to finding Harry. He still maintained his schooling, pushing himself to his limits to achieve spectacular N.E. that left even Hermione impressed, but spent every spare second of his time in research of the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters, their networks and their Arts. Everything he could gather and more. His natural charisma worked for him as he drew information from his professors that Hermione knew she would have found impossible to obtain. Every opportunity he got, Cedric would Apparate to distant locale, unearthing treasure troves of knowledge from buried and private libraries. He was a force to be reckoned with. It was his dedication to his cause that drove Hermione and her friends to push themselves to do better, to _be_ better. They would find their friend, no matter how long it took.

When word arose, slowly and then suddenly, that Tom Riddle had become a prominent member of the Ministry of Magic, Hermione and her friends had been shell-shocked. Not many were aware of Voldemort's true identity, but enough that rumours spread like wildfire and within days the entire Wizarding world was aware that the Dark Lord had become a public figure. Dread and morbid fascination gripped every witch and wizard as they awaited the assured disaster, the destruction that would unleash itself upon their world.

It never came.

This was not to say that Tom Riddle had no influence. It was widely acknowledged that the current Minister for Magic, Finnic Rottier, was little more than a puppet, strings looped expertly around Riddle's deft fingers. Discrimination ran rampant through the political and legal systems; the archaic prejudice against Muggleborns and half-bloods arose once more with a vengeance. Not in such a crude fashion as to conduct public executions or wand-snappings, but the distinction was clear in no uncertain terms. It was as though everyone was tagged with a status symbol, with those of pureblood and wealth afforded opportunities in education, services and facilities that 'lesser' individuals were not. It hurt more than a little, but in the face of the potential disaster that could have crumbled their world, Hermione felt herself lucky. In spite of her 'inferior' tagging in Withersby's horde of apprentices, she _was_ lucky, and largely sought to restrain herself from comment.

Cedric, one the other hand, was livid. One would have thought him the victim of torture, of familial loss, for the rage and hatred he directed towards Riddle. Hermione had never seen Cedric angry, truly angry, until that day at the end of his seventh year when the _Daily Prophet_ had announced its first deliberate adherence to such discrimination. Had they been able, Cedric's fellow Hufflepuffs would have scrambled for cover to escape his explosive rage. As it were, after the eruption of every cup of pumpkin juice at his table and a rather pungent explosion of bacon into charred smithereens, he'd placed his newspaper deliberately from the table, risen from his seat with the calculated slowness of one suppressing the desire to commit unspeakable violence, and departed from the Great Hall.

Hermione didn't think that many of Cedric's old friends talked to him much after that day. He'd been distant from them to say the least, but not only had he scared his generally kind-hearted housemates, he'd thrust himself into his searching and knowledge-gathering with a dedication that left his prior commitment in the dust.

It was all for naught, however. Graduating from Hogwarts, Cedric had placed himself as close as possible to Riddle in order to seek further information, to cosy up to the Riddle party and draw what scant leavings he could harvest from their infrequent slips of the tongue. Approaching Hermione and her friends months after his first appointment, he'd informed them with stoicism that masked his fury that no one was any the wiser as to Harry's location. There was simply not a hint of certainty on the subject, and barely any speculation. No one had seen hide or hair of the Boy Who Had Once Lived since the night of Voldemort's return, yet neither were they confident in his death. The former Death Eaters, for their name had been dropped as their lurking in the shadows became a thing of the past, knew as little if not less of Harry's whereabouts than Cedric and his himself. Evidently, Riddle coveted his prisoner – for he _was_ still a prisoner, had to be – and his secrets with equal miserly greed.

So it was that Cedric ploughed through his stagnating search. Hermione marvelled time and time again at how he could maintain such a level of motivation, such resilience in the face of dead end after dead end. It was inspiring. Cedric had known next to nothing of Harry, something he had attempted to remedy while building his friendship with Hermione and her friends, and yet kept on the invisible trail like a hound on the shadow of a scent. In the midst of it, he somehow managed to become a commendable Auror, secreting himself into the folds of the legal system while staunchly maintaining his views of equality. It something that rubbed off on his fellow workers likely more than they realised.

It truly was inspiring. Hermione felt sure that she would have been unable to persist with such dedication had she been alone in her search. Cedric was a bright spark of confidence, strength and persistence in a sea of uncertainty and disappointment. Even after four years, somehow he still made her feel that they would find their lost friend. That Harry wasn't truly gone.

Gazing across the table at Cedric's momentarily bowed head, she marvelled once again as he set his jaw, took a deep breath and sat up in his chair. Taking another sip from his glass, he smiled at Hermione over the rim. "All's well that end's well, Hermione."

"True, but nothing's ended, Cedric."

"Exactly," Cedric nodded. "So there is always room for improvement. Maintain that Gryffindor positivity I've heard so much about."

"I think you're confusing us with Hufflepuffs, mate," Ron said with a smile. It was hard to remain sombre in the face of Cedric's assertive optimism. "Gryffindors are all sulky bastards who are too stubborn to admit they're wrong."

Cedric raised an eyebrow as he returned Ron's smile. "What is this I hear, Ron? Are you bad-mouthing your own house?"

"Old house, Ced. And I'm not bad-mouthing it. Just seeing it for what it is."

"Well, that's some personal development, right there." Another sip from his glass and Cedric seemed restored fully to his usual good humour. "What can you do? But anyway, I guess it's probably a good thing that we were assigned supervision at the Coming-of-Age Ceremony."

"Is it ever a good thing to be around so many Dark practitioners?" Ginny asked, visibly shuddering at the prospect and shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"Of course," Cedric replied with undue enthusiasm. "These are Riddle's Apprentices we're talking about. He's only got, what, five of them? They'll surely be in the know more than even his old subjects. I see this as an opportunity."

"Course you would, mate," Ron smirked, face slipping into fond amusement that mirrored Hermione's at Cedric's optimism. "But you do have a point. Besides, if nothing else, I'd love to see Draco-sodding-Malfoy shunned by a girl younger than him. I bet it'd be spectacular, too; Dark witches tend to get a bit antsy when their pride is on the line. Some things are truly worth suffering to see."

"Hear hear!" Ginny laughed in agreement, raising her glass to tap it against her brother's in another toast. Hermione and Cedric exchanged grins; if nothing else, it would be an eventful evening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to my wonderful commenters! They were so lovely and encouraging. I'm sorry this was a bit of a wordy - and largely uneventful - chapter. It'll pick up pace at the next one, I promise :)


	3. Deceiver of Fools

Casting a glance around the room, Cedric conducted a quick headcount of the Aurors on duty. He could identify all of them at only a glimpse, and though he was hardly the qualified coordinator on duty he still felt it at least partly his responsibility to ensure that all corners of the impressive ballroom were posted to. The guest list was almost completely accounted for, and as such one could barely walk through the thick crowd without stepping on someone's toes. It would clear up soon, when people would flood into the dining hall or onto the patio behind glass doors that currently stood shuttered closed, but not yet. All awaited the arrival of Riddle and his apprentices.

Easing his way with slow, deliberate care through the crowd, Cedric made his way towards the front of the room. Kimberly had rotated too far to the southern wall, leaving the northern front corner with its line of sight down the inner halfway unsupervised. Ginny clung tightly onto his arm, keeping expressly in step with him as though fearing she would be swept into the current of tightly pressed, unanimously darkly clad bodies. Ginny herself was resplendent in dress robes of deep aubergine, clinging snugly to her waist in the current fashion and pooling to the floor past her toes. Cedric had been more than a little amused when she'd playfully pressed a matching handkerchief upon him to wear at his breast pocket, but he wore it all the same.

"Where are we going?"

Cedric glanced down at her again from where he had trained his eyes on his destination. "We just have to move up the front a little ways. To cover all bases, you know?" He resolutely ignored the scowl of passers-by that overheard his words. His covertness was merely perfunctory, convenient and a form of politeness. Everybody knew the Ministry would send Aurors to supervise the gathering. Besides, if half of the Dark wizards and witches were not sneering for such a reason, they would undoubtedly find something else equally irritating to curl their lips. Cedric wondered idly whether the expression was part of a uniform that accompanied the overwhelming darkness of their garments.

"Ah, yes, I see," Ginny nodded. "Well, at least it gives us a better view of the stage or whatever you call it."

Nodding in reply, Cedric halted their forward motion and turned his attention towards the wide, white-marble staircase draped in blood-red carpet. Where it split, turning to branch towards the upper stories of the manor, a wide landing stretched, bathed in a faintly luminescent glow. Even as Cedric watched that glow seemed to brighten as the rest of the room darkened. An expectant hush blanketed the crowd.

Right on time, the ceremony began.

Gliding with swan-like grace down, hands trailing down the polished bannister, appeared a train of silk-clad figures. One woman and three men, all silent with gazes focused forwards and ignoring the audience that turned respectful eyes towards them. Though so different as to appear four strangers plucked at random from the crowd, they emitted a distinctly similar aura, from the sharp, clean cut of their dress robes to the tight, almost severe styling of hair and the bored indifference of their expressions. Even the spider-like dancing of fingers down the bannister was mirrored precisely. Riddles Apprentices were rarely seen, but when they were it was impossible to overlook them.

Sweeping across the elevated landing, the four Apprentices lined up in perfectly fluid synchrony half a dozen feet from the steps. Hooded eyes and smooth brows finally turned nonchalantly towards the sea of onlookers. It was as though they wearied of the evening's ceremony before it had even begun, were aloof, saw themselves above it. They paused in step, perfectly in line, and for a moment they waited. The breathlessness of everyone in the room, of Cedric included, made the suspense almost tangible. They waited, they all waited, until, with dancer-like precision they turned in unnervingly perfect timing back towards the head of the stairs. Alongside the rest of the audience, Cedric followed their gazes. He felt his jaw tighten, his eyes narrow just slightly, as at the top of the stairs appeared the man himself.

One would expect that, given the overwhelming fear that Voldermort had induced with simply a name, seeing the man in person would have an even more earth-shattering effect. Such was not so. Tom Riddle, though intimidating, was hardly a sight to inspire bowl-clenching fear. He was a visage of youth that bellied his years, moon-pale skin, dark-haired combed settled in perfect curls and dark-eyes that fit his ensemble perfectly for their blackness as though intentionally coordinated. The Dark Lord seemed to meet the gaze of every individual in the room at once. Not fear was inspired; rather, the gut-wrenching desire to _follow_ , to be better, to do more for the man presiding over them like a king, pervaded all.

Cedric, aware of the magical nature of the compulsion, resolutely set his mind to ignoring the keening need to fall to his knees and grovel. Feeling a faint shudder from his side, he rested his fingers on Ginny's forearm, patting comfortingly until her tension eased slightly. Glancing briefly towards her, Cedric was unsurprised to see an expression verging on adoration that was barely rivalled by her subdued distaste. A faint twitch of her lips indicated she was similarly aware of the effects the Dark Lord induced but was spellbound nonetheless.

Descending the stairs with the same fluid grace of his Apprentices, Tom Riddle stepped to the front of the landing and raised his hands grandly. The wide sweep of his robes, wide sleeves trailing to the floor with his gesture, gave him a somewhat angelic appearance. An angel of death, perhaps, Cedric considered.

"My colleagues. My comrades. My friends. Welcome."

As one, as though under an _Imperius_ curse, the audience bowed their heads in deference. It was not totally uncharacteristic of lesser Lords greeting one of higher station, but the cult-like atmosphere it induced would always unnerve Cedric. It did not, however, prevent him from tilting his own head, if only for appearances sake. The thought of showing actually deference towards Riddle was enough to churn his gut in fierce distaste. Such was never warranted. Never. Not for _him_.

"We are gathered here tonight to welcome into our midst my fifth Apprentice. Undoubtedly, she is known to you all, despite my greatest desire to maintain secrecy as to the identity of my wards." A humourless smile faintly turned the corners of his lips. The effect it had was chilling. Cedric glimpsed more than a few audience members clutch their arms as though suddenly cast beneath a Cooling Charm. "But it is no longer of concern. For after tonight, Salomé Belaire will be formally and publically acknowledged as an Apprentice of House Riddle."

On cue, the onlookers raised a modest applause, the sound of jewellery clinking from fingers adorned with too many rings nearly drowning out the soft, respectful claps. As if in response to their recognition, Riddle raised his arm slightly towards the staircase he had descended and flicked his fingers in a beckon. A moment later, another figure almost as though Apparated at the top of the stairs, pausing with gaze resting in silent regard upon the audience and hand upon the bannister.

She was different. When Cedric drew his gaze from his flat staring at Riddle towards her, that was what he thought. When he did it was to frown in something other than a glare, of curiosity and wariness for both the strangeness and what it could and most likely did hide. Cedric didn't like surprises. He didn't like what he didn't understand either.

In the time it took the witch who appeared she little more than a girl to descend the stairs, he'd pinpointed just how she differed. It was all in the expression. True, her face was largely a blank slate of nonchalance, mirroring that of her fellow apprentices, but just as shadows caught it in her descent, a faint shimmer would cast her lips in a different light and quirk the corners just slightly, or twitch an eyebrow in faint amusement. Overall, it gave her a somewhat more approachable appearance. Cedric didn't feel any less wary for the thought, but maybe…

_This might be promising. Perhaps, if I can actually corner her for a second, this one will actually talk to me. Maybe…_

"She's gorgeous."

A faint, breathy sigh whispered from Cedric's side and he glanced down in confusion. Ginny met his gaze, her own faintly awed expression slipping into exasperation. "Oh, come on, Cedric," she whispered, leaning towards him. "I know you don't date, like, at all, but surely you can see that she's stunning. No? Hmm, maybe you _are_ gay… No, actually, that's a discredit to anyone who is. Even if you were you'd still find her beautiful." Shaking her head in disbelief, she turned back towards the front of the room, head cocking slightly as Riddle continued to speak to his silent audience in superior, sombre and utterly condescending words.

Following Ginny's gaze, Cedric similarly turned once more to the front of the room, brow furrowed more in confusion that hatred of Riddle as had previously rested upon him. Ginny's words settled in his ears as he deliberately tuned the Dark Lord's words into background noise. It was that or let his frustration and disgust for the man himself to curl his expression. The speech was the same for each of his Apprentices anyway, substituting only the name and a handful of their personal accomplishments as required. Cedric had been to two Coming of Age ceremonies before so he knew how it worked. Indeed, the list of skills and attainments was impressive, from mass, permanent transfiguration feats to the concoction of Master potions that the very mention of caused him to frown, but irrelevant. At least to Cedric, anyway. Instead he turned back to Salomé Belaire as she swept a slow gaze across the room, her invisible smile flickering to the surface of her pale face only when Cedric didn't look for it.

What Ginny had said… was he truly that oblivious? True, when Cedric really looked, he supposed Belaire would be considered stunning. Maybe not the face to launch a thousand ships but surely enough for half as many. She was markedly small, petite even, her slenderness only accentuated by the laced corset that cinched her waist. Thick black robes hugged her figure, but left her shoulders bare. Sleeves clung tightly to her arms before flaring at the wrists and falling over her fingers to trail nearly to the floor in a mimic of Riddle's. Matching the flowing grace perfectly, a simple high tail, decorated only with a braided crown of her own dark hair, trailed long tressed over her shoulders to rest upon the silver embroidery of her neckline. Musky kohl outlined her eyes, a colour nearly identical yet tinged with bloody redness across her lips. The darkness of her make-up contrasted strikingly with her cheeks, left bare of rouge to create an almost ghostly vision. Each aspect of her ensemble fit together so perfectly that Cedric wondered exactly how long it had taken her to plan it all.

 _There is definitely something wrong with me that I wonder how she_ plans _what she wears rather than admiring the end result_. He thought. Then he shook himself, frowning at the wayward thought. _It's hardly my fault, though. I just don't have enough head space for that kind of appreciation_. _In the whole scheme of things it's not_ important.

Satisfied with his conclusion, he finally shifted his attention back to front of the room, tuning in to the speech despite the urge to curl his lip it induced within him. Only to find it had ended. Instead, all eyes fixed upon the newly appointed Apprentice as she stepped forwards from Riddle's side and raised her arms, wand poised delicately in hand. Cedric suppressed the urge to shudder this time. It was the Apprentice's turn to demonstrate the magical project they were assigned to present upon their acceptance night. From experience, the result could be as fascinating as it could be horrifying. Such was the way with an extraordinary magic.

Evidently everyone else in the room felt much the same way as each member of the audience seemed to shrink an inch into their shoes. Belaire observed her onlookers directly with her ghost-smile flickering briefly. It was almost taunting in its amusement. A moment later she was spinning her wand in an elegant coil and scattering a spray of flaming, golden sparks into the air.

As Cedric watched, shifting in step warily, the sparks hung suspended in the air before Belaire as though observing their surroundings. Then, as one, like a flicked switch, they darted to every light source, every candle and sconce and chandelier in the wide expanse of the ballroom, and sucked the flickering flames from their holders. Drawn like grains of wheat in the wind, the captured flames gathered over the muted audience, roiling in a blinding light above upturned faces. The swirl of white-hot flames, feeding itself into an intense heat, spun in wild circles. As one, the onlooking audience shrunk further into the floor. Finally, with a burst of raw power, the glowing fire morphed into a discernible shape, sweeping through the air to suspend directly above Belaire.

Widespread wings of vibrant red spread like those of an eagle. A long, reptilian neck craned backwards, maw opening widely to emit a scream the sound of roaring flames. With a thrust of its powerful wings, the long, serpentine body twisted and slithered through the air above the raised platform of the stairs, whip-like tail lashing in its wake as it coiled and twisted in spasms.

"Dragon…"

Ginny's awed whisper barely reached Cedric's ears. Though wariness still drew tension into his shoulders, he felt himself similarly captivated by the radiant, flaming beast. As he watched, the creature of fire as large as small car flapped its wings to hover barely a body length above its caster before dropping towards her outstretched arm. A room-wide gasp resounded with the expectation of singed flesh, but Belaire simply smiled, a true smile this time. Catching the giant beast on her upraised wrist, she drew her other hand, wand still clasped in her fingers, to stroke the crested ridges of the beast's face. It was larger than she, totally incapable of balancing upon her slender arm, yet somehow it balanced with a satisfied hiss of flame, settling upon its haunches.

Turning towards her Master, Belaire bowed her head, arm stretched widely to display the creature balanced upon her wrist. A bow of her head and the regal creature, following her lead, dipped its own pointed chin, burning eyes slipping shut as it submitted entirely to the smiling man before it. For Riddle was indeed smiling; not the fear-inducing curl of lips but one of sheer and vicious delight. Cedric was unsure which was more terrifying.

"I am impressed, Salomé," he said, the silence of the room making his words louder than the murmur they were. His voice curled lovingly around the girl's name, wrapping around her in an almost visible caress. "You have indeed come far."

Belaire swept an elegant curtsy that sunk her nearly to the floor, her wand hand spreading her skirts wide in an artful sweep. Smile still gracing her face, she rose to standing, glanced once more at the regal beast towering above her and, as a falconer launches his bird, cast the dragon into the air. The flaming creature bellowed a heated roar, fired as flung into the air in a flurry of bursting, scorching light. Spiralling and dancing in twists and twirls towards the high ceiling, it released another cry before reaching its apex and abruptly exploding in a firework of white, red and blinding yellows. A few terrified cries slipped from the mouths of the audience before they were hastily smothered by embarrassed hands.

In a delicate yet rapid display of refined magic, each of the floating sparks darted like fireflies into faintly smoking candle-holders, sinking onto the wicks and lapping at the wax like tiny dragons themselves. Cedric watched keenly, eyes flickering between the candles dotting the walls and observing the aftermath of the magical display for what it was: strong, and evidence of one who could be very, very dangerous. Glancing momentarily back at Belaire on the staircase, he caught a glimpse of a smirk gracing her lips, a faint flicker of her fingers as she the flow of magic. She wasn't quite gloating at her own display, but she was clearly satisfied.

 _And so she should. I've not seen anything like it before_. Cedric doubted he would ever look at a candle quite the same way again.

* * *

For the rest of the evening, Cedric and Ginny drifted in near silence through the tide of guests. As predicted, when the Apprentices and their Master descended the wide staircase to sink into the sea of their subordinates, motion had once more gripped the onlookers and many seeped into the lounge suite, bar room or shadowed gardens and patio. It was as though each were waging a war with themselves: to gravitate towards their superiors to curry favour or to avoid the radiating intimidation and feeling of fear it induced.

With a quiet whisper to Ginny, Cedric suggested that they attempt to confer with the newest Apprentice if they could briefly acquire her attention. Despite Cedric's initial hopes, Belaire was far from approachable. Her air of aloofness and condescension, though evident in every Dark witch and wizard in attendance, seemed more pronounced in the Dark Lord's favourites. More of an honest indicator of true danger.

However, somehow she simultaneously gave the impression of affability if slightly taunting receptiveness. Perhaps it was her faint, ghostly smile, there one moment and absent the next, that lent itself to Cedric's courage and urged pursuit of his ever-present goal despite his uneasiness. He didn't know for sure, but if anyone would know the whereabouts of the long-lost Harry Potter it would be one of Riddles primary confidents. To Cedric's vague sense of guilt, the possibility of seeking an alternative source of information seemed to outweigh that of his Ministry duties. He could barely keep his eyes off the girl as he and Ginny circled the room, struggling to restrain his predatory hunger that Hermione termed an aspect of his developed 'obsessive nature'.

Unfortunately for him, Belaire was the centre of attention even when the focus of all attendants was directed towards her Master. Predictably, given it was her own Coming of Age Ceremony; Cedric registered as much, though he'd subconsciously hoped that the attention upon Riddle himself would have left Belaire available to hasty, demanding conversation. However, even when not swarmed by nervously skirting attendants, distant relatives and grovelling subordinates, the tall, blonde figure of the Malfoy scion was her constant companion.

Malfoy seemed none too thrilled by the prospect, despite the gorgeous witch - as Ginny repeatedly termed her – he unerringly shadowed. Rather, he seemed to be the victim to a rather pungent smell that caused his lip to curl and nose to crinkle just short of improper given the formality of the setting. His discomfort was so obvious that Cedric was surprised his immaculately tamed hair did not rise like hackles on a dog from its slicked styling. It was more than a little satisfying to observe; though Cedric personally held no grudge against the young man but for his allegiance to Riddle, he appreciated the gleeful grin Ginny wore on her burgundy-painted lips as she beheld his distress.

They skirted the ballroom for over two hours, awaiting an opening while under the guise of conducting Cedric's duties. There was little by way of occupying his attention so early in the evening, so Cedric was effectively granted the reprieve necessary to shift his attention between a veiled glare for Riddle and staring down his subject with hawk-like intensity. Ginny helped herself to the sweet and undoubtedly expensive champagne that presented itself on levitated trays to the eager hand, and amused herself by muttering digging jibes as the pompous, straight-backed guests. Cedric could hardly dispute her; he agreed with just about every comment she uttered. It was like watching a wary dance unfold before them. From past experience, Cedric knew that manoeuvring safely through the political families of Wizarding Britain was a skill unto itself. The performers in attendance were the ultimate artists.

It was when Cedric's superior, Dillon McFergus, approached him and requested he exchange locations with Bingle in the back garden that the dullness of the evening finally took a turn for the better. Well, not exactly the better, but certainly the more stimulating. They had navigated the circumference of the ballroom more times that Cedric could count and Ginny was half-heartedly complaining of blisters.

The gardens of the manor were as close as one could come to surreal while still remaining within the bounds of reality. Perfectly cropped grass lined smooth pavers that drifted like a river through a multitude of pale rose bushes and exotic nocturnal flowers. Designed with the express intention of being observed at night, a number of the bushes boasted pale leaves that glowed luminously beneath the half-moon overhead. The roses themselves seemed to shimmer white-blue, their glow morphing elegantly with the pale violet and soft pinks of the surrounding night-bloomers. There was hardly need for artificial or magical lighting with the plants illuminating the path sufficiently themselves. Yet even so, fairy-like specks of white light danced in a semblance of fireflies overhead, chasing shadows into the greater darkness.

Cedric and Ginny, descended from the patio and into the night as per McFergus' request, were in the midst of wandering their designated route when a shrill voice broke the otherwise calming silence. Only a word or two was discernible before it was quickly muffled into hushed tones. Cedric glanced briefly at Ginny, immediately raising his guard and frowning. The perfectly tailored manners of Ceremony guests should have eradicated the infrequent occurrence of disagreements but that wasn't to say they are absent entirely. It was for such clashing of wills that the half-dozen Aurors were begrudgingly allowed at the party at all.

The sound came from behind them, closer to the manor, so the apparent argument must have only just broken out or they would have passed the culprits in their slow wander. Turning by unspoken agreement, Cedric urged Ginny back in the direction they had come.

"... just a guest. I am greatly affronted that you would think I snuck my way into the Ceremony. As if I could, with the security of this place!"

Cedric's professional concern grew personal as he recognised Hermione's voice. He picked up his pace to nearly a jog, Ginny trotting at his side. What was Hermione doing outside alone? Where was Ron?

"I don't believe that for a second. What business does a Mudblood have at a Coming of Age Ceremony of the Dark Lord's Apprentice? It's disgusting to think you would deem yourself worthy of attending."

Nearing the voices through the glowing darkness, Cedric could abruptly make out the figure of their friend, circled like a baby deer in a ring of four burly wolves. Cedric felt his teeth clench. Slipping his arm from Ginny's, he hastened to Hermione's defence.

"What exactly is going on here?"

As one, the four young men turned towards him. Surprise turned to disgruntlement at the interruption, low growls rumbling in their throats.

"What business do you have here?"

Cedric adopted his professional mask, jaw set and brow smoothed to hide his own rapidly brewing anger. "I believe you were harassing this young lady, good sirs. You have by no means the right to do –"

"The right?" One of the men spat. "She's a Mudblood, I can smell it like shit on the bottom of her shoes! I have every right." He was a tall, lean youth with a mess of barely tamed dark curls. When he spoke it was to snarl at Cedric beneath a nose that appeared to have been broken at least once. His companions growled in agreement, nodding heads and scowling with renewed intensity.

Feeling his own scowl rising to the surface, his distaste and anger never far from the surface with Riddle's presence as a trigger that night, Cedric folded his arms and clenched his teeth. "There is no law to prevent Muggleborn attendance to the gatherings of Dark wizards. Section eight of the Combined Internationally Agreement –"

"Shut your trap, Auror!" Another man, shorter and wider than his friend, bared his teeth at Cedric. The snarl shifted into a humourless grin as Cedric flinched slightly at his recognition. "That's right, we know who you are. Everyone knows. Do you think we're idiots?"

Suddenly, without further provocation on Cedric's part, the speaker stabbed his abruptly wand-wielding hand forwards and spat a sharp curse. A burst of red sparks shot like a lightning bolt from the tip of the quivering wand and just avoided striking Cedric as he dodged the shot, lurching sideways to avoid the assault.

Surprise shifted quickly to understanding as Cedric grasped the situation. True, the wizards would have likely still been disgruntled at the presence of a Muggleborn, but it was unlikely they would have started a fight in a sober mindset. Protocol and inhibitions, with perhaps a little fear of their host thrown in the mix, would have suppressed any desire to initiate such a fight. Yet the inaccuracy of the spell and the unsteady stagger the caster stumbled after attempting to strike indicated the harassers had partaken too liberally of the ceremony's exceptional vintages.

Retreating hastily, Cedric looped his arm again through Ginny's and tugged her backwards further into the garden once more. He was unsurprised when Hermione appeared at his other side, following his retreat. He hadn't seen her escape from their predatory circle, but clearly neither had the other wizards.

A bark of laughter from the unsteady spell caster set the entire group to cackling like a pack of hyenas. They followed Cedric's retreat with leering jibes, closing the distance between them.

"What, not gonna stand here and take it?" A sandy-haired wizard sneered. "To be expected, I suppose. Filthy Mudblood. And friends of Mudbloods. Makes me sick." He punctuated his comment with a snort and spit wetly onto the ground at his feet. The appreciative chuckles of his fellows echoed his words.

Cedric's frown only deepened as he drew his wand in preparation for defence. He wouldn't attack – Merlin, the trouble it would cause should an Auror attack – but neither would he allow the drunken fools their liberties. "Please, recall the setting, my friends, we only –"

"Friends!" Horror laced the slightly slurred words of the broken-nosed youth who spoke as though genuinely sickened.

Cedric cursed himself the slip. He should have expected affront from that. "I only meant –"

"I don't give a fuck what you think you, you thought you – you meant. Or whatever." The wizard's lip curled through his stumble. "It offends me. I have the right to extract due compensation." With a fumbling search into the deep pockets of his robes, the wizard drew his wand. A sloppy smile painted his drawn lips, and he snickered, raised the wand and-

"What is going on here?"

Everything froze. Like a Muggle photograph, the pursuing, taunting group of wizards seemed to turn to stone. Cedric found himself similarly frozen in step as if immobilised by a Freezing Charm, Ginny and Hermione paused at his side. As one, every head turned slowly towards a previously unnoticed garden bench, elaborate carvings pale in silver paint and half buried in a nest of roses and thorns. Salomé Belaire, elegant and posed in her seated stillness, regarded the scene unblinkingly, staring not at Cedric, Ginny and Hermione but at the drunken young men who seemed to cringe in place without moving. A sculptured eyebrow slowly rose, the only expression on the blank mask of her face.

As one, the frozen wizards blanched. Cheeks paled as though their visages had suddenly become black and white. Fear instilled sobriety faster than a Hangover Potion. None moved in flight, though the hunching of shoulders and widening of eyes indicated the desire to do so.

Rising to her feet, the rustling of Belaire's skirts was the only sound that punctuated the darkness. Her diminutive height did nothing to dispel the terror that visibly swept over the wizards, causing throats to swallow spasmodically, hands to clench as though grasping at lifelines and shoulders to hunch even further. Cedric was almost surprised that the pavers beneath them were not abruptly splattered with evidence of their fear as Riddle's Apprentice raised her hands before her and idly twirled her wand, between her forefingers. Though Belaire had not even glanced his way, Cedric felt his own uneasiness well within him. He didn't deem himself a coward, nor even disconcerted by intimidation – for he couldn't be, not as an Auror – but as his attention was focused upon Belaire, images of a fire-breathing flame monster rose to the forefront of his mind. If she wanted to, Belaire could undoubtedly do some serious damage and though she hadn't spared Cedric and his friends more than a glance, his fingers tightened further on his wand.

"Do I have to repeat myself?" She asked, eyebrow twitching slightly higher.

As one, the young men hastily shook their heads. The one with the broken nose, apparently the appointed spokesperson of their party, managed to release a quivering stutter of a response. "W-w-we were simply having a friendly discussion, my Lady. N-nothing more. No harm done."

Her second eyebrow rising to join the first, Belaire's expression slipped into blatantly dubiousness. It was to be expected, really; she was obviously intelligent, would have to be acknowledged as she was by Riddle, and Cedric doubted anyone but the simple-minded could possibly overlook the reality of the situation. He could have sworn that the girl had shot lightning from her eyes from the cowering response it induced. "Oh?"

Heads nodded in vigorous response. "It's true, Lady Belaire," the spokesman warbled. "Nothing more. A- a misunderstanding only. I – w-we were just leaving upon your appearance, as it were."

"Is that so?" A dangerous smile unfurled upon Belaire's lips. Cedric suddenly felt something like commiseration for his would-be attackers, even admired that they did not flee at the sight. There was something definitely dangerous in that smile. "Then I suppose there is no need for my intervention?"

Heads shook as hastily as their previous nods. "Of-of course not, Lady Belaire. Not at all." The broken-nosed young man made an admirable attempt at light-heartedness, smiling in a manner that was positively sickly. "If you please, um… we shall be seeking the warmth of the indoors. Getting a wee bit chilly this evening." Rubbing his arms to accompany the suggestion despite the warmth of the night air, he cave a feeble chuckle. A static, almost painful stillness followed, nauseating for the tension it wavered atop so tangible that Cedric could almost see it. It seemed to endure forever until, at a slight inclination of Belaire's head, the quartet turned tail and retreated with remarkable speed given the trembling of their legs.

Just as they reached the edges of hearing distance, Belaire raised her voice to stab a final remark with a parting thrust of her tongue. "A pleasure to speak with you as always, Master Hamilton."

The hunching of shoulders from all the youths indicated that her threat, the recognition of the harassers, had not been overlooked. The tinge of malice in Belaire's tone bespoke confrontation yet to come. The men picked up speed until they were nearly running towards the manor, disappearing in seconds into the night.

A faint huff of amusement caused Cedric to draw his attention slowly towards Riddle's Apprentice. His wariness only heightened with the absence of the Dark wizards, though he tamped it down forcibly to assess the situation rather than fall prey to the intimidation that had consumed the fleeing wizards. Instead, he observed Belaire with as much objectivity as possible.

She truly was short. It was astounding in itself that she was able to induce such fear in spite of the fact that her head would likely fail to reach his shoulder. Cedric wasn't one to make assumptions, however, as she turned dark eyes upon he and his friends. Her head cocked slightly, like a falcon observing oversized mice ready for the picking. Had she not lowered her wand, vanquishing the thin rod back into the folds of her sleeves, Cedric suspected he would have been tempted to follow on the heels of the young men in his own retreat. Ginny evidently felt the same, as she edged further into his side. Hermione remained in a state of cowed immobility.

Belaire's lips twitched slightly, faintly condescending yet laced with something confusingly satisfied. The falcon had become a mother hen observing her foolish and uneducated chicks. It was disconcerting, even when disregarding the fact that she was a cold, calculating Dark witch, and one of Riddle's Apprentices at that. She was supposed to be younger than the three of them, yet the power that seemed to emanate from her, the wealth of knowledge that graced her petite features and straightened her spine with confidence, for the first time in years made Cedric actually feel somewhat inferior.

"You're welcome," she murmured.

Without another word, Riddle's newest Apprentice swept silently past them, sinking deeper into the depths of the darkened garden. Despite the magical and biotic lighting, her black robes and dark hair quickly allowed her to sink into invisibility.

A breath he hadn't realised he held sighed from Cedric's chest. Shaking his head he blinked incredulously. "That was... quite possibly one of the most unnerving experiences I have ever been experienced." He drew his fingers briefly across his brow, easing his frown before freezing. Sudden frustration made him curse. "Dammit! I didn't ask her anything."

Ginny patted his arm, her fingers trembling just slightly. "Don't sweat it, Cedric. I don't think she's really the approachable type. We probably wouldn't get anything from her anyway."

Seething, Cedric begrudgingly tipped his chin in a nod of agreement. A reluctant nod, for inside he kicked himself at an opportunity missed. He would have to find another, another moment to corner Belaire and drill her with questions for the secrets she undoubtedly held in her mind. But Cedric didn't think he had it in him to chase the into the garden at this point. Not after what he'd seen. Not now. "You're right, of course." He gripped Ginny's arm tightly, comforting as much as he was being comforted and, turning, directed her back in the direction of the manor. "We should go and find Ron. It's obviously not safe for Hermione to wander by herself. What were you doing alone anyway, Hermione?"

Ginny and Cedric had taken nearly a dozen steps back towards the manor before they realised that their friend was not with them. Casting a glance over his shoulders, Cedric frowned worriedly at where she stood in her frozen state. Hermione hadn't moved an inch since Belaire had appeared. Was she truly still frozen in terror?

"Hermione?"

Cedric had made it halfway to her side her before Hermione turned her head slowly towards him. Even through the gloom of the night-darkness, the expression of fear, confusion and a strange mix of wonder and horror caused him to pick up his pace. "Hermione, what –?"

"Her wand."

Frowning in his own confusion, Cedric glanced briefly down the path that followed Belaire's disappearance, as though he could make sense of the statement. "What?"

Horrified wonder had overtaken the fear in a twisting of Hermione's features. A strangled gasp of laughter burst from her lips. "Cedric, we have to talk to her."

"What are you -?"

"Cedric, her wand. She had Harry's wand."


	4. One Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am SO sorry for the lateness of the update! It's not really an excuse but exams hit me hard and I had to cut back a little on my posting load. I'm really sorry about that.  
> But to make up for it, I'll try and post the next chapter a little sooner. I'll try really hard! But otherwise, hope you enjoy the chapter.

Hermione rubbed her gritty eyes with both hands, forsaking the yellowing pages of the hardback book before her in her exhaustion. She was in the London Wizarding Library once more, though not in the archives this time. She'd spent little time elsewhere over the past weeks, with the exception of work, and had only been home for the brief hours of the morning when the library was closed for some fitful rest. Yet despite her dedication, Hermione was no closer to reaching answers to her surplus of questions that had only grown in number in the month following the Coming of Age Ceremony.

The rest of that night had passed in a hazy blur. Hermione had returned to a baffled Ron's side in feverish excitement, barely registering his contained awe over the grandeur of the lavatories. Only Ginny's explanation of the event's and Hermione's observation, following a hasty scolding at leaving her alone, cleared his confusion. The same excitement had gripped both Weasleys as the gravity of Hermione's realisation had slowly become realised.

Neither questioned the validity of her words. When it came to matters of importance, from the contents of every textbook to the slightest marking upon a beloved friend's wand, Hermione was never wrong. She _knew_ she was never wrong. Barely contained euphoria had gripped her, conveniently overlooking the wealth of disappointing possibilities in the face of the first hard evidence of Harry Potter's existence they had seen in years.

Cedric he had maintained a resolutely composed exterior. Cool, calm, and yet Hermione could see the feverish glint in his eyes that suggested he wanted nothing more than to chase Salomé Belaire down, pin her to a wall and question her until her throat became raw. Fortunately for Salomé, or perhaps Cedric as Hermione doubted the powerful young witch would be particularly receptive to such treatment, they could get no closer to her than they had been able to in the previous hours of the night. Not to mention that, as soon the grandfather clock in the manor foyer sounded a bellowing chime at midnight, Riddle and his Apprentices withdrew. The guests followed their lead, gradually departing from the manor themselves. Surprisingly, there had been little by way of disruption throughout the night. But for a scuffle or two out of sight of Riddle himself, aside from the flouncing of the Dark peacocks as they strutted around the ballroom, it had been remarkably tame.

When Hermione finally Apparated to the comfort of Cedric's neat little single bedroomed apartment, her suppressed excitement was released alongside a blast of loud voices and a frenzy of gesticulations. Ginny and Ron were nearly beside themselves with this scrap of a lead, and Hermione hadn't even bothered to attempt to discern the words the two exchanged in an intense relay that struggled to drown one another out. She simply bathed in their excitement, wringing her hands in her own nervous energy from her seat beside Cedric.

Cedric was focused in his typical Cedric manner. Far from babbling incoherently, he sat himself firmly into a hard-backed dining chair, elbows propped on knees and chin propped upon hands as he stared at the floor. A feverish light brightened his eyes in a slightly crazed flicker, lips moving silently as though he spoke to himself in deep contemplation. Hermione was struck once more, as she so often was, by just how dedicated her friend was to finding the Boy-Who-Had-Lived. Or was it obsession?

Far from the aggressive proactivity one may expect from both a Hufflepuff and one merely fulfilling an obligation, Cedric had thrown himself into his search with a passion that still at times surprised. He barely knew Harry, or didn't initially; Hermione and her friends had seen to remedying the fact with his request when he had all but declared his mission and they had in turn agreed to assist him. Their sessions of diving into research were frequently wistfully animated by stories of the past and the adventures Hermione, Harry and the Weasleys had found themselves in.

Nowadays, it seemed like Cedric knew their lost friend on a level just as deep if not somehow deeper than the rest of them. When he spoke of Harry, it was with genuine affection and respect bordering on adoration. Had she not seen the gradual development into the almost obsessive motivation, Hermione would have been shell-shocked at the difference between the rational, level-headed and generally jovial young man and the impassioned knowledge-seeker. It was funny, she often thought. He would have made a perfect Gryffindor. And yet Hufflepuff...

It was only when Ginny finally cooled down enough to instil a modicum of calm into her brother that they set about attempting to decipher the riddle that Salomé Belaire presented.

"So. Harry's wand. What are the possibilities?"

As one, every head - even Cedric's, of renowned intellect himself - turned towards Hermione. She sighed, withholding the urge to roll her eyes. She didn't particularly like to feel superior, to admit she knew little more than her fellows, but such was the case. "I'm not exactly sure. There are a number of reasons she might have his wand, but I would have to conduct further research to be grounded in my speculations."

"That's okay," Ginny nodded shortly. "Just tell us what you've got anyway."

Again, Hermione sighed. The possibilities, as far as she was aware, were not particularly broad, and yet none seemed exceptionally likely. "I guess... I don't know, we'd have to probably deduce the answer to the real question before we looked for further possibilities."

Ginny frowned, obviously not in keeping with Hermione's train of thought. Ron wore an almost identical expression when he spoke. "Other question. Right. Which is?"

"Is Salomé Belaire a theft of the wand or is she Harry himself?"

Only Cedric appeared unfazed by the statement. Ron and Ginny simultaneously dropped their jaws. Hermione had rarely considered them alike, but in that moment the resemblance was remarkable.

"Wha –? You mean -? Harry's a – a girl?"

Hermione huffed her exasperation. "Ron, even in the Wizarding world such a feat of genuinely changing one's anatomy is next to impossible. An adult body doesn't adapt to significant change that way. No, what I'm referring to is perhaps an Illusionary Charm, or even Polyjuice Potion. They are the two possibilities that come to mind, but even they..."

"I'd suggest Polyjuice over Illusionary," Cedric murmured. "Maintaining any illusion, potion or enchantment for an extended period of time is particular draining and susceptible to being noticed by other wizards." He seemed the only one of Hermione's three listeners of a rational enough mind to make his own assessments. 'But honestly, I'd hazard a guess that both methods would be next to impossible. It's common knowledge that the Apprentices spend a considerable amount of time in the Unspeakable Department of the Ministry and entry to such areas entails magical and physical examinations for concealment. Polyjuice or glamours would be spotted in an instant. And other than those two… there are not so many other ways that she could be Harry."

Hermione suspected she was the only one who noted the tone of longing in her friend's voice. She had long found the reaction confusing, had accommodated it, and instead felt a familiar upwelling of sympathy rise within her. She nodded, drawing her mind back to the matter at hand. "Right. So that leaves the other option: that the wand was taken from him."

Immediately, Ron's dumbfounded expression slipped into a snarling scowl. "Someone would dare –"

"Of course they would dare, Ron," Ginny interrupted him. "He's a prisoner of the greatest Dark wizard of our time. Did you expect pampering?" Though she scolded, the anger strewn across he own face suggested Ginny was in much of the same mind as her brother.

"Exactly," Hermione nodded in agreement. "So that leaves us a number of options. One: Harry is dead and –"

"He's not dead."

Hermione bit down upon the irritation that threatened response to the monotonous, unwavering statement. Cedric ignored her frown that refused to be withheld, however, his gaze turned back towards the floor as Hermione continued. "I was just listing the possibilities. I know you said Harry is alive, but death of a witch or wizard is one way of breaking the contract between magic-user and wand. The second way is if said spell-caster is beaten, effectively proven inferior in a clash between individuals, and the wand forsakes their owner."

"Blimey." Ron's face sagged into something akin to horror. "Having your wand forsake you would be..."

Hermione nodded her fervent agreement. The thought made her gut clench nauseatingly. "Exactly. Horrible. But it is more than a likely possibility, given that Harry's wand is in the hands of one of Riddle's apprentices. The third option is that Belaire is simply using the wand while it still has a prior contract with Harry, which is unlikely as such a situation would leave her significantly handicapped in spell-casting and damage the precision of her performance. I think from her display at the Coming-of-Age Ceremony, it's safe to say that she isn't struggling with her magic."

Heads nodded in agreement. Fire seemed to light each of their eyes as the memory of the flaming dragon filled their collective visions once more. "So that leaves basically either that Harry is hiding, or having his true form hidden, or his wand was stolen from him," Ginny said.

Hermione nodded, a confident gesture that contrasted to her unspoken doubts. "Yes. And I don't know if I'm alone in this opinion, but I can't see Harry even pretending to act anything like Belaire. She was practically fawning over Riddle like he actually was her master.'

"True," Ron nodded immediately. "So what, it's definitely not Harry dressed up as a girl?" The idea seemed to make him uncomfortable, a state Hermione found somehow amusing even with the gravity of the situation.

"Oh, not necessarily, Ron. There are a number of potions and spells that could cause him to act in such a way. The Imperius Curse, for one, which we know Riddle isn't above using. Even if Harry used to be able to throw it off he –"

'Yeah, yeah, I get it," Ron overrode her. "But it's unlikely, right? I mean, he's been trapped with the bastard for four years. Compulsion Charms and curses take their toll when you use them again and again, right?"

Hermione nodded. It was true, and Belaire didn't show any of the symptoms that one usually exhibited when under repeated exposure to Compulsion; even when in the throughs of the effects, long-standing victims appeared listless, lethargic and unresponsive. Riddle's apprentice seemed anything but.

"So that basically points us to the fact that someone stole the wand." Ginny tapped her foot in agitation, anger spreading across her face once more. _"Dammit_. Stealing someone's wand is just... it's just…"

Once more they all nodded their agreement, even Cedric whom Hermione had suspected had removed himself from their conversation entirely. He certainly seemed distant enough, his focused expression trained resolutely on the cream carpet as though studying it for answers.

"We can't be entirely sure what has happened until we question Belaire," Hermione said, attempting to rienforce her logic. Frowns turned towards her, though she knew they weren't truly angry at her. It was simply the frustration of the situation. Still, it twinged a little. "I need to conduct further research. I'm sure there are other possibilities."

The conversation looped in circles for the rest of the night. Everyone rode on a high of tension that drove any tiredness cowering into the recesses of their minds. The sun had begun to peep over the horizon, through the curtains when they finally parted ways. Each was set in their purpose and made straight for fulfilling their individual goals. Cedric was infiltrating the Ministry familial archives for information on Belaire herself, while assisting Ron in his attempts to deduce her whereabouts and schedules, seeking a plan to monopolise her apparently scarce time. Ginny was doing much the same work on the gossip grapevine, utilising the connections she so disdained from her career as a Chaser of Puddlemere United. As for Hermione, she sorted through the endless piles of novels at the library in an attempt to deduce the nature of their misunderstanding.

So far, she'd found little to counteract her prior assumptions, save to enforce what both she and Cedric had already known. It _did_ seem most likely that the wand had changed owners, more so than the possibility that Belaire was Harry in disguise. Though it had been interesting to learn of the range of possibilities for such to have occurred. Hermione had stumbled across Body-Swapping, whereby the consciousness of two individuals switched vessels. Such procedures were incredibly complex, however, not to mention Dark, and mostly resulted in a morphing of the consciousness, which then proceeded to horrifically split unevenly between two bodies. The alternative was a complete eradication of the persons themselves leaving nothing but empty shells in their absence. No one had successfully achieved a full-consciousness Body Swap in more than two centuries.

Aside from that, there was the Metamorphosis and Semi-Metamorphosis Complications that transformed the gender of an individual into their counterpart. Hermione similarly found such to be unlikely, primarily due to the fact that the former was only conductible on children. The latter option was similarly dubious as far as she was concerned. Though the procedure could be enacted upon adults with consistency, repeated use would force the body to revert back into its original form with increasing rapidity. Further, long-term Semi-Metamorphages generally tended more towards the distinctly androgynous. As far as Hermione could tell, Belaire seemed a fully-fledged woman.

Which led her back exactly where she had started. Unless she considered Polyjuice Potion or Illusionary magic, both of which Cedric had disregarded. Hermione herself was sceptical as to why Riddle would bother with such a farce. Surely he would rather flaunt his dominance over his victim, wouldn't he? Which left, basically, the Forsaking of the Wand.

The process of a wand forsaking their wizard was complex and hinged significantly upon the degree of magical magnitude possessed by the magic user. The stronger the witch or wizard, the greater the bond with every incantation. Similarly, the longer the duration of the bond, the more stable it was. A couple of years wasn't a considerable amount of time for Harry to develop a deep-seated bond with his wand, but Hermione knew he was powerful. One of the most powerful wizards of his generation, if stories were told correctly. Such stories spouted from just about every political faction.

To break such a bond would require the theft from one of an equal or greater magical strength. Hermione knew that Belaire was strong – she was an Apprentice, for Merlin's sake – but stronger than Harry? Of course, there were ways to weary the strength of the bond, chafe at it like twine sawed with a blunt stick. Hermione didn't like to think about that possibility either, though. The state it would have left Harry in was… painful to consider.

Rubbing weary eyes once more in the all-too familiar gesture that sent sparks dancing across the insides of her eyelids, Hermione heaved sighed. She didn't know how much longer she could keep up her rigorous workload. Not only was it exhausting, but the material triggered a deep sadness and gut-wrenching pain as it hit so close to home. The more she read on forsaking wands the more she hoped that Harry had not been subjected to it, even if that meant the possibilities were up in the air once more. Apparently, the loss was akin to having a piece of one's soul removed with a pair of hot pliers.

Sliding _Eldric's Compilation of Wand Mechanics_ to the side, Hermione's hands were drawn automatically to the towering pile to her left. She had just slid another impressive book from the smallest pile when a glimmer of white caught the corner of her eye.

Shifting, half-turning in her seat, Hermione frowned curiously at the Patronus that darted between tables of the sparsely occupied library. Tail flicking eagerly, nose pointed directly towards her, there was no question as to whom the dog was headed. As the terrier dropped onto its haunches beside her, Hermione recognised the shimmering form as Ron's conjugation moments before his voice spilled from its panting jaws.

"Hermione, I, erm… I have a problem. I've done something stupid, really stupid, and I'm in a bit of a spot here. Would you be able to come see me? Like, right now? I'm two blocks east of Murphey's, on Church Street three streets back from the roundabout and inside the little alley on the left. Keeping hidden 'cause… look, I just really need you. Please hurry."

Staring for a long moment at the terrier Patronus, head now bowed, ears tipped nervously and tail thumping in a quiet plea for assistance, Hermione started swiftly to her feet. Ron's voice had been nearly frantic, as though only his Auror training had enabled him to coherently convey his request. Without a backwards glance, leaving her books strewn across the table behind her, Hermione hastened from the work space in the direction of the Departure Apparation Room.

Moments later, she was outside the Murphey's Danish Delights. The little bakery was a common meeting point for she and Ron and triggered a rush of memories as she glanced briefly towards it in the orange light of early evening. Though in a Muggle neighbourhood, it was owned by a squib and hence frequented by both wizards and Muggles alike, despite its isolation from the general public areas. It was the site of Hermione and Ron's first 'date' in the Muggle world and held a special place in both of their hearts, despite the relationship's termination. It would now always be a place of mild regret.

Snorting in self-reprimand, Hermione started at a swift trot towards Church Street. Now was no time to get nostalgic. A dogleg left and into the traffic-less street, she hastened in the direction Ron had directed, passing streets before beginning to count the alleys that jutted off like branches from a tree. One… two… three –

She nearly crashed into him when she rounded the final corner, skidding to a stop just in time. Ron held his arms before him in startled defence, eyes widened fearfully before he recognised Hermione before him.

"Thank Merlin you got here so fast."

Breathing in slight pants, Hermione adopted the appropriately named 'Mrs Weasley' expression and thrust her chest out, hands on hips. "Ronald, what have you done now?" Now was not the time for flattery, no matter how warranted his words were.

Ron cringed, head ducking and hands rising once more, a feeble attempt at placation. "Look, I just… bloody hell, Hermione, I've really put my foot in it this time, I don't –"

"Just tell me what happened."

By way of explanation, Ron stepped aside, allowing light and Hermione's narrowed gaze to peer past him into the shallow alleyway. She felt her eyes widened in shock that quickly deteriorated to horror.

"What did you do?" She whispered

Ron only shrugged, his shoulders trembling faintly in his distress. Only his obvious terror and guilt spared him from a well-aimed hex. Passing straight past him, Hermione hastened into the alley and quickly crouched down on the ground, knees digging into cold concrete through her trousers. She gently shook the unconscious figure's shoulder.

Salomé Belaire made no response. The girl, clad unexpectedly in faded jeans and plain tank top, slumped motionlessly upon the ground, too limp even for sleep. Her head shifted slightly, limply, with Hermione's nudge, but otherwise gave no response, conscious or otherwise. Hermione swallowed tightly, edging closer to the girl and pressed fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse.

"I didn't kill her, Hermione."

Swinging her gaze over her shoulder, Hermione pinned Ron with a glare. " _Apparently_ , since she still has a pulse. What happened, Ron? And don't you even think about lying."

"I wasn't gonna," he replied in a grumble. He dropped his eyes to his feet, the typical scolded child. "Where do I start?" Running a hand through his hair, Ron released a heart-felt sigh. Already his tension appeared to have faded slightly with the simple act of Hermione's presence, though his shoulders did tighten slightly as Hermione narrowed her eyes further.

Ron cleared his throat before speaking. "Well, I was coming home from work, and I wanted to swing past Murphey's, as you do, you know? Best pies in London, except for Mum's. Anyway, I was waiting for my order when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of – of her. I didn't realise it was her at first, just, you know…' Ron blushed in sudden embarrassment. Hermione raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. There was no need to elaborate on exactly why Ron had been staring at Belaire.

Clearing his throat awkwardly once more, Ron continued. "It wasn't until she turned around that I actually saw who she was. When she did, I don't know, I got angry. Everything that we were saying, that we thought, about how she had stolen Harry's wand, and I kind of lost it. I don't even know how it happened, but one second I was in the bakery and the next I had my wand out and pointed at her in the middle of the street.

'Tell you what, Hermione, she's good. Had her back to me and everything, didn't even have time to draw her wand but still managed to deflect my first shot. It was only when she turned around and pulled out her wand that she actually seemed to hold back for a second. I don't know why, maybe she recognised me from the ceremony or something? Even though I didn't talk to her…" That embarrassment, so irrelevant given the gravity of the situation, twinged in his expression up once more. Hermione felt her own anger rise with it.

"Get to the point, Ron."

Ron's eyes widened in something that was almost fear once more. "The point. Yeah. Right. Well, like I said, when she saw me, it was like she stopped for a second, and in that second I managed to get another _Stupefy_ in. She dropped to the ground, right there in the middle of the street. As soon as it hit her, it was like I got my mind back and everything. Grabbed her, and hid in this alley. That's when I called you."

"Did anyone see you?"

Ron shook his head. "It's Church Street, Hermione. They're lucky to get a handful of people at peak hour."

Hermione nodded in begrudging agreement, releasing the breath she hadn't realised she held. "Well, we have that to be thankful for at least." Turning back towards where Belaire lay limply on the ground, she considered their situation with logic struggling to resettle itself. "Alright. We need to move her. Somewhere safe and hidden, till we can think about what to do further."

"Do you think we would be able to question her?"

Another cold glare had Ron dropping his chin once more, eyes drooping in a manner oddly similar to that of his terrier Patronus. "I don't think she'd be very receptive to questioning right now. More than anything, we need to concentrate on her not striking us dead the second she wakes up. And, if we are lucky, convincing her not to put out a warrant for the arrest of every person we've ever talked to. This is one of Riddle's Apprentices, Ron." Hermione widened her eyes pointedly in an attempt to impress upon her friend the severity of the situation.

Ron nodded rapidly. "Alright, alright. No questioning. Do you think we should at least tell Cedric and Ginny?"

"Hm." Hermione pressed her lips together, dropping her gaze back to Belaire. It might not be a bad idea. They would probably use all the help they could get. "Ginny should have finished up with training about an hour ago. I know Cedric works till six on weekdays though."

"Isn't Ginny coaching the pre-schoolers today?"

"No, that's only every second Thursday."

"Right."

Rising to her feet, Hermione began casting a Patronus to send Ginny's way. "I'll send her a message to meet us at…" She paused, considering for a moment. It wasn't like they could take Belaire to her own home – a _Muggle_ home, with her _Muggle_ parents – and Mrs Weasley would hit the ceiling if they passed her door carrying one of Riddle's spawn. Cedric's wasn't available either, what with him being effectively out of play, so that left them with very limited options. "We'll go to Fred and George's. They should be okay to accommodate us, even if they don't know why. You carry Belaire."

Turning from Ron with a roll of her eyes as he moved to ease his arms beneath Belaire's knees and shoulders with a blush, she spoke a hasty message to Ginny. Her sea otter swept into the air a moment later, disappearing around the corner with Muggle-aversion charm shrouding its form. Not even glancing at Ron to ensure he followed, Hermione set off at a brisk walk back towards Murphey's. It was the only place in the near vicinity she knew well enough to Apparate from.

Within minutes, the pair and their unconscious accompaniment cracked into the living room of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes upper-floor living room. The room was small but cosy, boasting a three-seater and two armchairs, a coffee table, open fireplace and wall of shelves sagging beneath a surplus of strange and eclectic objects. The faint babble of merchants and clients beneath them indicated that, even nearing closing time, the twin's store was a riot of activity. It always was. Still resolutely avoiding looking at Ron, Hermione took herself rigidly to the armchair closest to the fire. It was only autumn, but the muted crackling of the flames were a welcome warmth nonetheless.

Catching sight of Ron's uncertain shifting, she finally pinned him with her glare once more. "For goodness sake, Ron, just put her on the sofa and sit down. We're not going to discuss anything until Ginny gets here anyway."

Ron ducked his head in sheepish compliance, clearly still guilty for his actions. Which he well should be, Hermione through tightly. He gently placed his charge onto the plump, peach-coloured sofa before taking himself onto the very edge of the cushion of the matching sofa beside it. "Maybe we should –"

"Ron. I said we are waiting."

So they waited.

Ginny was not long in arriving. Unfortunately, her entrance brought the twins alongside her, both grinning ear to ear. Dressed in a blinding yet somehow fashionably appealing mix of primary colours, they seemed to bring a circus into the room with a single step. A predatory gleam, a contrast to the tight concern in Ginny's eyes, spread across their faces.

"Well, well, well… what have we here? Ginny says Ron's tried to steal a maiden's heart but seems to have gone about it rather the wrong way."

Ron's jaw dropped, eyes flickering frantically between Hermione and his siblings. "Hermione, what exactly did you tell Ginny?"

"Now Ron, haven't you learnt that abduction is not a valid method of woeing? If you needed direction, you could have simply asked." The twin – Fred, Hermione thought, though she still managed to get it wrong sometimes – snickered, elbowing George in shared amusement.

"That's not what –"

"Sure, sure, Ronnikins. Who is she?" George asked, grin widening. Both peered past their brother at Belaire and twin eyebrows rose to the sound of Fred's low whistle. "Merlin, Ron, reaching a little above ourselves, are we?"

"Fred, George, we are so sorry to intrude but it was kind of an emergency," Hermione said, trampling through Ron's stutter. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Hermione," George said, grin turning towards her. "Our home is your home, you always know that. Only, promise you'll tell us the details when everything is sorted? And we would so love to meet our little brother's… friend." The same predatory gleam of amusement beamed from both of the twins' faces, delighting in their younger brother's discomfort.

Hermione sighed, but nodded her head. At least that had deduced that the situation was delicate enough to require privacy. She doubted Riddle's Apprentice would stay around long enough to meet the twins, however. "Sure. I'll let you know," she agreed. It wasn't as though they were entirely unaware of what Hermione and her friends were attempting anyway. They knew the skeleton of their search, and assisted where possible. Belaire, however, was a rogue bludger that even they were not yet aware of.

Apparently satisfied with Hermione's word, the twins ducked their heads and retreated from the room. Their animated chatter could be heard dwindling into murmurs as they thumped down the stairs. Ginny closed the door behind them.

"So, what the hell have you done now, Ron?"

Ron, far from cowed by his sister despite Hermione asking nearly exactly the same question not half an hour before, scowled up Ginny as she planted herself before him. It was uncanny how, despite the differences in age and general physicality, Ginny could look so like her mother when she wore such a furious expression. "Shove off, Ginny. Don't act so high and bloody mighty. Besides, from what Fred and George said, I think Hermione has told you more than enough about the situation."

Ginny scowled at him before flickering a glance towards Hermione. "She has. Quite a long-winded rant you gave there, Hermione. I thought your Patronus would dissipate before it reached the end of the message." Ignoring Ron's grumbled objections, Ginny turned from him to squat before the sofa. She spared a glance up at Hermione. "What should we do?"

Hermione sighed, shrugging aside her irritation for necessity's sake. "Firstly, we'll have to wake her up. See if she's alright. She fell onto hard concrete, so even though there is no sign of physical injuries it doesn't mean that she doesn't have a concussion or something. Then, I guess…"

"We wing it," Ginny finished for her. She looked like she was trying to convince herself more than Hermione that it would work out. "Hope for the best. She did help us out at the party, Hermione, though I feel like she probably did it more for shits and giggles or to spite those wankers. Still, there's a chance she could, ah…" Ginny trailed off, at a loss of exactly what to expect. Belaire was a rogue bludger indeed.

Hermione fell into contemplative silence beside her friends, scenarios playing across her mind of just how much damage an angry Dark Lord's Apprentice could inflict. Then she shook herself. "Alright, enough of this. We're just getting ourselves worked up." Clapping her hands, Hermione rose to her feet and stood alongside Ginny. Ron rose with wary slowness, treading forward slowly like a wolf with hackles raised.

Drawing her wand, Hermione pointed the tip towards Belaire. She was unsurprised when she noticed the tip quivering just slightly. Amazing, how a girl so small and seemingly defenceless in her unconscious state, could instil such fear in grown witches and wizards. Her only mollification was that she knew she wasn't the only one terrified.

In unison, all three of them took a deep breath before Hermione incanted. " _Enervate_."

None dared breathe, let alone move. Hermione locked her widened eyes upon the girl that remained in limp stillness for endless moments before finally taking a barely deeper breath. Her head tilted slightly, hips shifting as she shuffled on her bed of cushions. A frown furrowed her brow and elbows pressed unconsciously into her bed of cushions as she tried to lever herself upwards. Finally, shoulders bunching slightly as though discomforted on the couch and brow wrinkling, she opened her eyes. Long lashes blinked in confusion, the disorientation of a child awakening from a dreamless sleep. She stared hazily up at them, propping herself on an elbow as her other hand rising blearily to her head before –

"Bloody hell!"

Hermione wasn't quite sure how it happened, but suddenly Ginny was atop the girl, straddling her and slamming her back into the cushions once more from her elbows. Belaire uttered a faint squawk of surprise, eyes blinking in sporadic flutters, before Ginny grabbed her pale cheeks in both hands and held her head firmly. Both witches were frozen, one in bleary confusion and the other in intense focus.

Hermione watched in shock for a moment, uncomprehending, before she finally reclaimed the use of her tongue. She started forwards hands rising. "Ginny! What are you _doing_? Are you trying to frighten her to death –"

"Look, Hermione! Look at this!" With both hands, Ginny turned Belaire's face towards her friends. The girl blinked, startled, not yet fully in control of her senses, and struggled feebly in Ginny's grasp.

Hermione refrained from wrenching her friend off the Riddle's protégé, though her hands still hung suspended in the air as though itching to tug Ginny to the floor. Instead, she shifted her focus to what Ginny was indicating so pointedly. She gasped.

"Oh… oh my…"

"Yeah, that's right. Oh my indeed."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi again.
> 
> So, I just feel like I have to say this because I've received a couple of words about it. Just because it was sort of a bit of a twist/spoiler, I didn't put it in the tags at the beginning of the story. But just as a heads up.
> 
> SPOILER
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> That I'll just put
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> Right down
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> Here.
> 
> Okay. So. Yes, it might be pretty obvious by now but I didn't want to spoil it for anyone who didn't know. Yes, this IS a story that involves genderbend, though I see it more as transgender in a way. But no, it is NOT the stereotypical 'make a character a girl so she can date a boy' scenario. No. I'm not doing that. This is a plot bunny I've sat with for a while that is NOT romantic. Seriously, this story isn't really about romance at all, so in that regard... another spoiler? Sorry if that disappoints anyone. I mean, I've sort of hashed it out as left to interpretation much of the time but...
> 
> Yeah, so, no. This isn't a genderbend to put the genderbent character in a hetero relationship. I don't do that. Seriously. Hope this doesn't disappoint too many people but I felt I had to say something before the story drew on too much longer.
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you might stick with the story anyways. It's more than understandable if not, however :)


	5. Salomé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Second half of my apology gift. Hope you enjoy!  
> As I've indicated in the tags, be prepared. Yes, Harry is OOC. Not uncalled for I should think, given the circumstances, but still. Just so you know.  
> A brief trigger warning for references to off-screen torture too. Nothing graphic, but just so you know that too.

For once, Salomé was afforded the opportunity to recover from her Stupefication in her own time. Somewhere in the hazy depths of her semi-consciousness, she marvelled at just how long it took to regain full control of herself. Usually, her attacker would use an accelerant; Dark wizards and witches were not especially known for their patience. Even so, she suspected that the repeated exposure to forced unconsciousness had likely slowed her recovery further.

As such, it seemed to take an eternity for her vision to stop swimming, the sluggishness of her limbs to fade and the hollowness of the echoing voices to smooth into audible words with the sudden clarity of breaking through the surface of water. Sound returned first, accompanied by an alarming heaviness on her chest and a painful headache that felt as though her head was trapped in a vice.

"…know what I'm seeing, and I'm telling you –"

"No. No, absolutely not. We already said it was impossible. Hermione researched it. Trust _her_."

"Fuck the research, Ron, listen to what I'm saying! I spent four years bloody infatuated with Harry, I think I'd recognise his eyes when I see them!"

Shit. That was not good. Even with the fuzziness slowing the turning cogs of her mind, Salomé could perceive the statements and felt dread sink in her stomach. An unintentional groan seeped from her lips.

"Oh – oh, I nearly forgot she's waking up. Ginny, quickly, get off her. You're crushing her."

Abruptly, the weight on Salomé's chest eased and breathing became infinitely easier. The vice-like grip on her head similarly eased, leaving only a dull headache. Whether for the increase of oxygen or simply her eyes finally flickering into functioning, light flooded Salomé's vision. She blinked her eyes rapidly, clearing the residual blurriness, and wedged an elbow into the couch beneath her to prop herself into a semblance of sitting. When shapes defined themselves, she turned towards her now silent audience.

The three faces that stared back at her, frozen in wide-eyed shock and mounting anticipation. Their stares, the simple sight of them, unearthed the memories that had led to Salomé's current situation.

_The smell of honey-glazed donuts accompanied the distant purr of traffic._

_A faint hum of magic on the fringes of her consciousness and she threw up a shield._

_Turning to face her attacker, the red-hair, freckled cheeks, face twisted in fury…_

Realisation hit Salomé with the force of a colliding semi-trailer.

Goddammit. Why did it have to be him? Them? She'd rather _anyone_ but them. A quick revision of their overheard conversation wedged the frozen ball of dread more firmly in her gut. _And they know._

Turning her attention towards her audience, Salomé forced her thoughts to slow into order. Faces, sharply familiar yet lined with maturity and devoid of childish innocence, gazed back at her. They seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something from her. Whether it was for the initiation of a conversation or a furious leap to attack was uncertain. They appeared prepared for either.

Biting back the sickly taste that coated her tongue, Salomé met each of their eyes in turn. No one seemed to breathe.

"Hello."

Life lurched back into the room, the picture-like immobility shattered with her single word. Even after years, after so long, she could read them like a book. Ron's face slumped into a look of pure stupefaction, a mixture of surprise and horror. Ginny's shock bordered on something almost delighted, while Hermione had simply adopted a flabbergasted mask. It was enough to make just about anyone fidget uncontrollably in their own skin.

Not Salomé, though. Years of practice, of exposure to study far more intense, vanquished any urge to sink into the plump cushions behind her. She sat up properly, back straight and chin high, slowly crossing her arms and legs in turn.

"It's going to be a very long afternoon if this continues much longer," she finally said. "Take a photograph instead, or better yet paint a picture; it would surely be faster. Or wait." She paused, raising an index finger to tap her chin with false contemplation. "Actually, no. Don't. Such things can't exist. If it goes public…"

Salomé's half-hearted attempt at spurring her spellbound audience into action seemed to work. Hermione stumbled backwards and sank down into the armchair behind her, Ron retreating to her side to stand in a stance that Salomé registered as protective though could have been merely seeking comfort himself. Ginny dropped instead to the floor, barely two feet away from Salomé and stared up at her. She appeared fixated, the delighted smile that had threatened exposure before spreading across her her.

"You," she breathed. "You're Harry."

Salomé snorted lightly, eliciting a slight start from her audience, and shook her head. "No."

"Yes you are, you're –"

"No, Ginny, I am not."

Ginny paused, mouth still hanging open in dispute. "You called me by my name. How can you deny… after saying -?"

"I'm not denying who I was," Salomé interrupted quietly. "Just who I am. I can assure you, I am very much Salomé Belaire."

The returning shock on her old friends' faces twinged faintly in the frozen depths of her chest. Unfamiliar, strange and…

 _How odd._ The thought presented itself in the newly stabilised recesses of Salomé mind. She didn't think she had enough emotion left within her for regret or remorse. A twinge of annoyance rippled through her at the possibility that she was not as hard as she knew she'd become.

"You're… how is this possible?" Ever the knowledge-seeker, Hermione's bafflement seemed to overcome her surprise, thrusting aside the renewed shock and hurt that graced Ron and Ginny's faces. 'You - you're definitely a girl. At least – mean, from what I can tell." Hermione flushed slightly but seemed to thrust the thought aside with a sharp shake of her head. "How is this…? I don't understand. How are you a girl?"

"More importantly," Ginny said, frowning pointedly at Hermione, "where have you been? We never believed you were dead, but if you were a prisoner…"

Salomé sighed, irritation scratching at the back of her throat and overwhelming the regret, the discomfort, the abrupt nostalgia and not-quite-affection that have previously lodged there. She felt something of relief that the old, unfamiliar feelings had died down once more. She couldn't afford to be distracted by emotion. "It's regretful that I have to leave you in ignorance, but I have to leave. I am already too long away and," she paused, cast a quick wandless _Tempus_ that once more enticed surprise from her onlookers. "Yes, it is far too late. I have to go."

Rising to her feet to the sudden widening eyes of those before her, Salomé reached into the back pocket of her jeans for her wand. It was with some surprise that she actually felt it there; at least Ron had remembered to retrieve it.

Raising the holly wood, she spared a final glance for the people who had been her friends – and was promptly thrust abruptly back down into her seat. With startling speed, Ron had launched himself forwards, hands gripping Salomé shoulders firmly as he nearly forced her through the couch.

"No," he growled. "You wait. You can't leave, not now." Ron spoke in a low voice, rich with an intensity Salomé had never seen in the long-ago years they'd been friends. "If you are or – or _were_ Harry, if you have a shred of my best friend left in you, you will stay and explain yourself." Tortured eyes turned down upon her, Ron's expression was twisted in heartfelt pain. "Please."

That faint buzz of unfamiliar emotion resurfaced once more. Salomé was so caught on the sadness welling in Ron's eyes that it was a struggle not to shift beneath his attention. Clenching her teeth, she sought her ever-attainable calm, the resolve and logic that she had exercised like a growing muscle over the past four years.

Yet somehow, today, that muscle appeared feeble, lacking, and entirely devoid of its usual strength. Salomé stared up into Ron's penetrating stare, fighting her cringing composure, to keep her expression schooled. What was happening to her? This wasn't…

 _This is not me. What am I doing? Get a hold of yourself._ And behind the reprimands, the irksome rationality that whispered soft comforts. _Just do it. You'll have to blast him to pieces to leave anyway and that would be tiresome. You know how to overcome the difficulties this presents, so do so. What harm is there in that?_

Then, even more tantalisingly, He _wouldn't want you to so…_

Sighing, Salomé leaned slowly back into the pale cushions behind her, slowly so as not to spur Ron into action once more. Still holding his gaze, she placed her wand on the couch beside her. Raising both hands to present their emptiness, she spared a brief glance to Ginny and Hermione. "Fine. If I must, shall we avoid irrational and violent? Hm?"

Ron's brow furrowed, but after a moment he warily stepped backwards once more. The slowness of his steps suggested he was prepared to jump upon her once more, and the tension in Ginny's crouch bespoke much the same. _Really? Do I look like a flighty colt that will take off at a moments notice?_ Though, giving them their due, she very nearly had.

"Harry. Or Salomé, I suppose. Which would you prefer?" Hermione, naturally the most collected of the group, broke the guarded silence. She looked positively bursting with curiosity, though was clearly attempting to contain it, flooded with the desperate need to question, to _know_. Salomé bit back a sigh. It was so like the Hermione she'd known. Had the girl not changed at all since she was fourteen? Had Ron? Ginny? Salomé knew she herself had changed in ways that were not all satisfactory. Necessary, undeniably, but desirable? Certainly not. Even the practical, rational outlook she had developed over the years couldn't deny that, by and large, Salomé knew she was a bit of a cold, ruthless bitch. Just the way she wanted to be.

"I believe we've already covered that," she said, hearing the coldness in her tone rear its head once more. A brief mental chiding and she thrust the thought away. "Alright. We'll talk. But first: Nanny!"

Before anyone could even raise a questioning eyebrow, a sudden crack erupted in the middle of the sitting room. A split second later, the appearance of a short, bone-thin elf garbed only in an admittedly exquisite silk tea towel explained the noise away. A gasp from Hermione was ignored by everyone, house elf included. In fact, Nanny ignored all other occupants in the room as her eyes fastened upon Salomé's and she hastened to her side.

"Mistress, what is you doing again?!" Her tone was almost scolding but for the nervous sharpness, though Salomé knew none but she would be able to hear it. "Where is Master Suorsquat? Mistress is knowing what trouble Mistress is in if Master Suorsquat tells the Lord Master."

Nanny's voice was nearly hysterical in her frustrated concern. Her ears quivered like a nervous cat and her fingers wrung themselves painfully as though they wished to wring a dishcloth. Her jaw trembled in what, to anyone else, would have appeared to be fear for herself but Salomé acknowledged as worry, and no little amount of admonishment.

"Calm yourself, Nanny. I am aware of what I am doing. When was the last time I was punished for misconduct? Do you truly think I would allow myself to slip up again, after last time?"

Adopting a soft, soothing tone, Salomé raised a questioning eyebrow. Nanny, familiar with her quirks after so many years of intimate service, dropped her head and sighed long-sufferingly. "Of course, Mistress. Nanny is knowing how prepared Mistress always is. Forgive Nanny for assuming."

"Not at all, Nanny. I directed you to assume as much to always keep me alert, did I not?" Nanny nodded. "Good. Then there is no need to punish yourself."

Once more, both Salomé and Nanny ignored Hermione's indignant gasp. The house elf raised her gaze to Salomé's and smiled widely, affection apparent to any who could recognise the emotion on an elf's face. "Of course, Mistress, as you says. What is it that Mistress is calling Nanny for?"

Salomé pursed her lips. "I feel I may be delayed in returning to Mr Suosquat's side. As you have suggested, my continued absence will likely cause some distress. I would have this distress alleviated momentarily."

"Yes, Mistress. Mistress will be wanting usual?"

Nodding, Salomé once more picked up her wand from the couch. The hasty steps Ron took towards her caused her to direct a pointed stare towards him, pinning him in place. "I'm not going anywhere," she said shortly. Awaiting Ron's nod of acceptance, Salomé turned her attention back towards her enchantment.

WIth complex twirl of her wand, the distinct box shape that she had become so familiar with, she uttered a murmured, " _Persona Speculo"._ In a flutter of wispy sparks, a marble-sized orb appeared in Salomé's upraised palm. Nearly weightless and glimmering a faintly cloudy emerald green, it breathed magic.

Nanny raised her hands expectantly, cupping the glowing ball Salomé passed her in her hands as she would a delicate butterfly. "Nanny is to be follow Master Suosquat as well, Mistress?"

"Thank you, Nanny, yes. And keep me informed if circumstances take a turn for the worse."

Nanny nodded rapidly in her natural instinct of subservience. A crack snapped through the air once more and she was gone, leaving only the faintly perfumed scent of her immaculate tea towel in her wake. Salomé nodded to herself in satisfaction before catching the faint smile on Hermione's lips.

"What?" She said flatly.

Hermione started slightly, but her smile didn't fade entirely. "Oh nothing, just… you thanked the house elf."

"And?"

"Nothing. Just that I guess it's nice to see, since you're claiming to be a Dark Witch and all." She uttered the comment with an offhandedness that curled Salomé's lip. _Claiming?_ She didn't reply, didn't blink to break her stare.

Hermione's smile rapidly faded at that. She cleared her throat before abruptly jumping topics. "How did you do that, by the way?"

Salomé slowly raised an eyebrow. "Do what? The Doppleganger Charm? I would have thought you definitely would have been familiar with it, given it _is_ only sixth year level in complexity."

Hermione nodded, cringing slightly. "Yes, it is. Packaging is not, however. How did you even learn how to Package a charm of such complexity? Most people only manage a _Lumos_ and even then it's not Enduring. And why?"

Salomé raised her eyebrow further. "Obviously, Hermione, I practiced. That's the basic principle of learning, is it not? As for why – house elves are naturally ill-adept at conducting deceptive magic as it goes against their innate instinct. She needed to take the charm to divert the attention of my bodyguard, as it were, since Ron has made it apparent that he would dislike me to do so himself."

Ron's bashful shifting was ignored entirely by Hermione in her rigorous pursuit. "Yes, but how –"

"Enough with the twenty questions, Hermione, please!" Ginny's growl effectively snapped Hermione's jaw shut with a click. "Honestly, is this a Charms lesson or are we actually going to get around to discussing important things?" She turned her attention towards Salomé, and the irritation in her gaze was not dissimilar to Salomé's own. Ginny gave a slight, tight smile. "But before we do move on, I just have to check. You obviously know what you're doing, and have likely used the charm on your 'bodyguard' or whatever this Mr Sour-squat is. How long does it last? How long have you got until he gets suspicious?"

Salomé nearly sighed in relief as Ginny turned towards more practical matters. Thank Morgana le Fay that someone had a modicum of sense. Undertaking a Charms lecture was not high on her list of priorities for the day. "No more than an hour, less if there's substantial distance between myself and my Doppleganger. Nanny will let me know should I need to retreat post-haste."

Ginny nodded in acceptance. Casting a glance towards Hermione and Ron who had lapsed back into silence that seemed to thrum, she seemed to reach a conclusion. "Alright. Here's how it's gonna go.' Ignoring Salomé's frown, she laid the grounds for the questioning. "We only have so much time, so we need to cover the most important points."

She stared at Salomé for a moment as though expected a reply, but Salomé remained resolutely silent. Oftentimes she found that muteness was far more useful than any words. Biting her lip awkwardly, Ginny paused for a long moment more taking a deep breath and continuing. "Firstly, are you really Harry?" Holding up a hand in retaliation to expected dispute, Ginny added a rushed, "I don't simply want a 'yes' or a 'no'. I need facts. Who are you – or more correctly how have you changed from being Harry? Why has Riddle spared your life? Where have you been for the last four years and how the hell have you managed to get out of his clutches long enough to go for a wander in downtown London, regardless of a supposed bodyguard that tails you like a loyal bloodhound."

By the end of her spiel, Ginny was breathing heavily. She'd evidently tried so desperately to suppress whatever overwhelming, roiling emotions that welled within her, but it seemed opening her mouth had torn down the flood gates. Anger tinged her words, sadness and regret, and above all, confusion. There was a desperate need to know within her words.

As Salomé noted the surfacing of each emotion, filing it away detachedly and apathetically, she lanced towards Ron and Hermione. Similar desperation painted their faces in mirror-like reflections. Hermione was shifting in her seat so frequently she appeared to be almost trembling. Ron similarly seemed unable to remember how to stand motionlessly. "Is that what you want to know?" She asked quietly.

There was a brief exchange of glances, wary, before nods dipped each chin. This time, Salomé really did sigh. Frustrating. It was frustrating. The past was not exactly something she wished to divulge. Nor was it particularly safe to do so.

But she saw it. Salomé saw it in their eyes, in each expression, that they would demand if they had to. She could blast them aside, take herself out, and yet…

As the thought occurred to her, she knew there was no escaping the inevitable. She could, but she wouldn't. Salomé raised her wand once more and murmured a short " _Cevalerimus"_. Immediately, greyish wisps erupted from her wand and darted like fleeing fish towards each of the other inhabitants of the room, burying into temples before any could flinch away. A startled cry arose unanimously.

"Wah!"

" _Wha-_?"

"What the _bloody hell_ was that?"

Ron was striding forwards instantly, planting himself before Hermione and his sister. A hand clasped his temple as though the spell that had struck there had pained him. Salomé knew it was nothing but dramatics. The spell was harmless. The reality of it did nothing to smooth the dangerous snarl from Ron's face. Salomé was not unfamiliar with blood-boiling anger, or hatred for that matter, and the urge to spring to her feet with wand raised was almost, _almost_ difficult to suppress. More than that, however, it was morbidly astounding to see her old friend's face so contorted with rage, and directed at her no less. Salomé thrust aside the realisation that felt just so… wrong with a mental shake of her head. Foolishness. A foolish thought.

"Sit down, Ron, you're being irrational."

"Irrational?" Ron spat. "You just shot a bloody spell into our heads!"

'A spell which has caused you no immediate injury and was, I can assure you, entirely necessary. It's a Concealment Charm, defensive magic to hide our following conversation from listening ears.'

Ron fell silent for a moment as gradually aggression slid into disgruntled confusion. Just as slowly, he lowered his hand from his head. He still remained towering over Salomé, much to her distaste, and when he spoke it was through gritted teeth. "What, like a _Muffliato_ or something."

"No, Ron, not like a _Muffliato_ ," Salomé said disdainfully. "A protection for your mind. Similar to Occlumency, yet more infallible, it hides the memories you will produce in encounters henceforth from future attempts at Legilimency." She paused, then emphasised, "Any Legilimency."

Silence met her words. As one, displeasure and even the traces of fear slipped into incomprehension, then to shock. Ron and Ginny's mouths fell open in twin pops and even Hermione breathed a soft "Oh". She raised a hand to her mouth, blinking rapidly as she clearly struggled to grasp the situation. 'You mean it will… hide the thoughts from someone who tries to see them, no matter how deeply they look? Better even than Occlumency?" She shook her head slowly, frown resurfacing. "I've never heard of something like that. How have I never heard of this spell?"

Salomé had to bite back the dark amusement that threatened to curl her lips. "You've likely not heard of it as it's not widely used. Not only is it considered something akin to grey magic, if not purely dark, the difficulty with the spell is that it needs to be conducted before conversations. Many do not consider the need for privacy until after conversations that require such privacy have passed.'

Again, soft and slightly startled "Oh"s whispered through the room. Allowing her eyes to roll in open exasperation, Salomé recrossed her legs. A pointed stare at Ron's still-looming figure sent him trailing back to Hermione's side. "Are we done? Shall we move on?"

All three of her audience nodded slowl, each with varying degrees of confidence. Ginny, apparently taking the lead with the questioning, shuffled forward slightly on her knees. "Please, S- Salomé. Tell us everything."

The simple plea was one of the most difficult that Salomé had ever faced, and not because her voice or memory failed her. The sincerity of the phrase, tinged with longing and sadness, made it strangely difficult to consider refusal. Salomé didn't know these people, not anymore, and had no obligation to them, and yet from somewhere she felt the familiar urging of being backed into a corner. Of being forced to act, to behave, though for once it was not a magically induced compulsion. She didn't like it. Salomé didn't like it at all.

Was it for the past? For a long-discarded past that she could _not_ consider? After all this time, after such changes that had undoubtedly gripped each of them, it was strange that somewhere, somehow, what she barely even contemplated as being fond loyalty still remained for those she had left four years prior. The surprise at such a realisation roiled her gut unpleasantly.

Thrusting the thought aside, Salomé forced herself into a semblance of practicality and nonchalance. There was only so much time left to them and, damning though such a revelation may be, she felt the compulsion to speak of what had befallen their lost friend.

Strange. Very strange. And decidedly unnerving.

Clearing her throat, Salomé drew her gaze between the three of them. Pursing her lips, she considered. "Where to start… How much do you know?"

Hermione took up the baton from Ginny; Ron and Ginny both appeared happy to let her do so. "The Triwizard Tournament. Cedric portkeyed back to Hogwarts after the third task. He was the one that revealed that Voldemort had returned. It was because of him that the Order of the Phoenix was reborn as quickly as it was. He told us what happened. It was because of him, because of what he heard, that we knew – _knew_ – you weren't dead. He said that Voldemort, that the Death Eaters, had said they wouldn't kill you.'

Salomé nodded her head slowly, finger rising to tap her chin once more. She had nearly forgotten the presence of the Hufflepuff boy that night, oddly enough as it was due to her attempt to expel him from the midst of evil incarnate that she had found herself stranded in. Even from her altered and admittedly ruthless perspective, however, she couldn't say that she blamed the boy in the slightest. That too was odd, but she'd long acknowledged the fact. Long, long ago, so long that she hardly even recalled Cedric Diggory at all.

Flickering her gaze towards Hermione, Salomé deliberately adopted a bookish tone of recitation. If she was going to speak at all – which for some ungodly reason she'd decided she would – it was simpler recite than to remember. "After Diggory left, there was as much disappointment as can be expected, considering the Death Eaters had lost another potential source of amusement. I do not remember much of that night; it is mostly a blur that I find best not to contemplate.

"I woke at what I can only assume was the next morning in a place I'd never been before. A manor of sorts, I suppose, old and worn. In the middle of nowhere and completely unremarkable save for its presence at all. My memory generally fails when it comes to that period of time. Suffice it to say that, as a permanent thorn in the Dark Lord's side, he made the best of my custody to vent his rage."

At her words, Salomé audience visibly flinched. Ron's face rapidly paled into a sickly grey while Ginny's eyes looked on the verge of falling from her skull. Hermione had raised a hand to her mouth, clamping tight enough to turn her knuckles white. Salome ignored them. Pity? What did pity matter? "The strange thing about magic-induced pain is that, no matter how long it is endured, Dark witches and wizards will always find new ways to stimulate the nociceptors that would otherwise have become destroyed. I often think that I would have slipped into madness had it not been for the Stabilising Charms the Dark Lord is fond of using."

A faint moan slipped from behind Hermione's hand, but Salomé didn't paused. She barely saw her anymore, gazing detachedly into the past. Much like watching a Muggle film, those before her were simply there. "I'm unsure entirely how long it lasted. Had I even had the inclination to mark the days, there were no windows to see the rise and fall of the sun. Upon arrival I was taken inside the manor and locked in a lower basement that was something of a dungeon. It was my world, and it was dark and cold and silent.

Salomé closed her eyes briefly. It sounded horrible when she said it like that, she knew even through her detachedness. Yet that dungeon room was better to where she'd been dragged for the Death Eater's amusement. It was with something almost wistful that she recalled the relative comfort of the dark.

"Yet as was always anticipated, the Dark Lord grew tired of his play. I don't know if what the Death Eater's said was true; perhaps he didn't consider that inducing pain in another person would grow tedious. But in any event, the first day that I stepped outside it was to be escorted to an open courtyard with a dozen Death Eaters as our audience. And he killed me."

Synchronised gasps filled the room. Salomé blinked her attention towards them each briefly. Eyes widened and Hermione was not the only one with a hand clasped over her mouth. Ron sagged onto the arm of the chair and Ginny was actually trembling in place, tension tightening her shoulders and rippling through her limbs. "How…?" She managed to choke out.

Salomé barely heard the faint query. She barely considered the pale faces and overflowing pity. She'd never cared for it, _loathed_ it, even. She didn't need it. Instead, she found herself revisiting those fateful moments, those she'd replayed often enough in the early days that she could recall every minute detail. Even so, it still managed to capture her attention and she found herself effectively tuned out from her surroundings. Only a faint awareness alerted her to the continued presence of her listeners.

"As appears to happen between he and I, when the Killing Curse struck it was not only myself who was affected. From what I can discern, from the memories I recall as I somehow woke once more, the curse backfired with an intensity that equalled that which struck me. The Dark Lord was felled, and the fact that he beat me to his feet was likely due only to the fact that I was half-starved and incapacitated at the time.

"I don't feel sympathy for the Death Eaters there, though at times I do still find myself reluctant to revel entirely in the destruction of life. The humiliation of being thwarted once more was apparently too great for the Dark Lord. He killed them all immediately." Salomé ignored another gasp. "Perhaps it was simply to ensure that he was still _capable_ of killing with magic. They all fell, like puppets with their strings cut. I didn't know all of their names, nor if they still held a shred of humanity, but delight though I do not I hold no regret for their loss." She heard her own voice, the venom lacing her words, yet was not mournful in flavour. Salomé hated, _hated_ the cursed minions with a passion that was rivalled only by the hatred for her captor.

"When he approached me, I could see that he viewed me differently. Perhaps differently to how he had ever looked at anyone in his entire life. I saw his mind clock over possibilities and reach a conclusion." Salomé closed her eyes as the image of the snake-like man of Tom Riddle's past impressed itself onto her eyelids. "People believe that wrath and hatred are the most terrifying emotions to behold. I disagree. Greed and obsession, insanity, that should truly be feared.

"In that brief spell of silence after being struck by his rebounding curse, the Dark Lord had changed something. Something that I have realised only after much pondering and compiling the scraps of information he has offered me. The Dark Lord always knew we had a connection; after the second direct attempt on my life, however, he revised his speculations. I've heard him use the term 'soul mates' before, though he disagreed with himself as soon as the words were voiced. He claimed it didn't quite encapsulate our bond." Salomé felt her lips smirk. "Too much equality, I'd wager."

Opening her eyes, she surfaced briefly, awareness of her audience swimming back into focus. The expressions of horror were still present, but on an entirely new level now. A greenish tinge had coloured the pastels of Ron's face, and he wasn't the only one who looked on the verge of ridding himself of the contents of his stomach. Understandably, Salomé considered. Upon realising herself, she'd been similarly horrified, defiled in disgust, upon realising for herself.

"The strange thing about the Dark Lord's obsessions, something that I had not realised before I was truly _with_ him, is that he covets them like an ancient dragon's would his hoard of gold. It is perhaps fortunate that the Death Eaters that saw his 'death' were killed on the spot. I have no doubt that he would have killed them far less cleanly had he not. I learnt later that, for all intents and purposes, Harry Potter had disappeared. He hadn't died; no, I do not know why he never said I had died. Perhaps he believed it discredited his current claims somehow. But yes. Disappeared.

"It was a natural repercussion of this claim that he would change me. The Anaref Potion is something that I would not advise to even the most desperate of individuals. It has its own sort of pain, and not all of it necessarily physical."

"Anaref Potion?" Ron murmured. He still appeared to be struggling with his nausea, a hand clasped across his mouth.

"Anatomical Reformation Potion," Hermione supplied shooting him a quieting glance that was almost a glare. Her voice crackled faintly in distress, yet even so her ever-present logic, her encyclopaedic knowledge, had obviously withheld its participation for long enough. Swallowing in what appeared to be more like a gag, Hermione finally dropped her own hand from her mouth. Her lips were pale and drawn thinly beneath. "I considered the Anaref Potion when I was researching, after the first time we saw you. We noticed your wand, recognised it, and were looking for an explanation. It didn't escape my notice that you simply becoming a girl was a possibility.'

Nodding her head, Salomé tilted her chin as an indication to continue. A spark of understanding filtered through the stagnation of her thoughts. _So that's how they knew_. She contemplated as much curiously, for unlike her listeners, Salomé felt hardly perturbed by the retelling of her own story. _I wonder if that makes me a little insane myself?_

"I'm curious," Hermione said, tucking her hair behind her ears in a gesture that Salomé recognised as an unconscious response to deep thought. Her eyes glazed contemplatively, staring into the middle distance. "It's true that, regardless of how adept magic is at making the impossible possible, it cannot cause a permanent change in gender without surgery involved. Glamours, yes, and temporary transfiguration, but both sap the energy of the caster for their duration. As for potions, the Anaref Potion is the only one that will cause permanent effects, but it is commonly acknowledged that the effects will only influence children." She frowned in evidently frustration. "It _only_ works on those who have not yet begun developing into maturity."

The textbook analysis somehow managed to ease the mounting tension of the room. Ginny cocked her head, considering, and even Ron, always one to avoid theoretical discussions, frowned in thought. Salomé nodded her head in acceptance; yes, Hermione was still as bright as ever, always reliant on researched knowledge and formal recordings. It was perhaps her primary failing.

"That is true to an extent. The Anaref Potion can only act upon those who have not yet experienced, or are only just beginning to undergo, developmental maturity." A dry smile curling Salomé's lips. "It may have escaped you notice, but even at fourteen I could hardly be said to be developmentally progressive.'

Ron nodded his head knowingly, more confidently than Hermione and Ginny's hesitant acknowledgements. "You were always small. Really small. You said one time how you were even jealous of me when my voice started to break."

Offering another small, humourless snort, Salomé settled back into her seat to continue where she had left off. "Yes, 'small' is a kind way of putting it. I believe that the Dark Lord would have thanked my aunt and uncle for their neglect that fuelled my growth defects had he known. Otherwise, I do believe that all the skill in the world would not have changed my fully."

"But you… are you really a girl?" It was somewhat amusing to witness Ron's face flush with his own question as he strove so hard to keep his eyes from flickering down to Salomé's chest as if seeking confirmation. It seemed so out of place, so far removed from his distress of only moment before, that Salomé had to bite back a scathing laugh.

"Would you perhaps like to check?"

Whether from shock or serious consideration, Ron was frozen in open-mouthed silence. Only an audible whack on the shoulder by a frowning Hermione knocked him back to his senses. "For goodness sake, Ron," she hissed.

"What?"

"You know what."

Ginny drew her own briefly amused gaze back from her brother's cowering huddle and turned towards Salomé. Seriousness rapidly instilled itself once more. "Even knowing what you've told us, I wouldn't have recognised you without the wand and the eyes. You look so different. Who knew as a girl you would have been so…"

"Beautiful?"

Salomé allowed herself a smirk as the mouths of all of her popped open once more. Hermione huffed in an exasperated breath of laughter a moment later. "And so modest, too."

"Modesty has nothing to do with it, Hermione. I'm merely relaying facts. I take no pride in my appearance. How could I? Do you take pride in a picture that someone else has painted?"

This seemed to baffle Hermione entirely. "What do you mean?"

Salomé pursed her lips slightly. This. This was what she did _not_ want to discuss, almost more than her past. And Hermione was supposed to be the smart one. The questions were beginning to grate, and Salomé's enforced stay abruptly became more and more vexing. "Do you honestly think that an altering of genders would have resulted in how I look now, Hermione? I am a realist, or have somewhat become one, if nothing else. I hold no qualms about admitting that, though I was not unsatisfied with myself, my visage as a boy was hardly one to comment on."

"I wouldn't say that," Ginny murmured audible whisper, one Salomé easily ignored. Her irritation was growing further, like a flame that had caught on a log and grew with each splinter consumed. Salomé was adept at concealing it, but the emotionless state she'd fallen into when retelling the past was falling away like shadows before a flickering candle.

Her voice was low when she continued and tension resurfaced in the room once more. "The Dark Lord saw – he _sees_ me as a possession. Why would he not change me to suit his tastes? I'm not oblivious to what he has made me, though I cannot claim it doesn't repulse me. It is not something I have to be proud of."

"He made you like that?" Frustratingly, Ron seemed more warily curious than disgusted, though the disgruntlement was certainly there.

"Yes, Ron, I believe that is what I just said. Modifying my physicality when under reformation effectively made such changes permanent." Refraining from rolling her eyes, Salomé dropped her gaze to her wand, tapping it idly with her index finger. They were getting nowhere and time was passing rapidly. Any residual affection she may have felt, any urge to answer the curious questions, was quickly dying. Too much longer and she most certainly would hex her way from the room. "You asked me what happened, and I have told you. What else do you want to know?"

The question seemed to startle all of them out of their contemplation. Ginny, ready with her questions as though she had rehearsed them, shuffled forward on her knees once more before speaking. "You told us of how you became Salomé, but what about everything else? An apprentice of Riddle? What's the game? I don't believe for a second that you would genuinely bow to his power."

Salomé scowled, eyeing Ginny flattly. How had she managed to fidget herself so close? She was nearly sitting on her feet. "You don't believe it? And what, pray tell, would make you think you knew me well enough to make that sort of judgment?"

Ginny opened her mouth, closed it again, and lowered her gaze to her hands folded in her lap. She turned her chin and for a second Salomé caught a glimpse of a sparkling sheen glazing her eyes. _Oh, and now she cries_. There was not even a grain of sympathy in her mental tone, Salomé noticed detachedly. And why would there be? Tears were useless. They solved nothing and were entirely unnecessary.

Apparently Ron thought otherwise. His lip visibly curled. "Hey. Do you have to be such a bitch?"

Immediately, both Ginny and Hermione spun towards him with hackles raised. "Ron!"

Ron appeared hardly reprimanded. "She is. She's being a bitch."

Salomé allowed herself a smirk at the anger and righteousness that twisted Ginny and Hermione's faces identically. That at least was amusing, that Ginny could shift from the verge of tears to indignation in the span of a second, that Hermione's detached logic could disintegrate into disgust just as rapidly. Salomé was the only one who seemed aware that Ron didn't appear to fully believe his own words, or at least not as Ginny and Hermione perceived.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for the sake of Salomé's amusement, both witches' opportunity to launch themselves upon Ron like vengeful hawks was diverted with a sound like the amplified snap of fingers. Nanny appeared at Salomé's side once more, face sombre and flooded with concern.

Turning her attention immediately towards her, Salomé raised an eyebrow. "Nanny?"

"Begging your pardon, Mistress, but Nanny is to be informing Mistress of any changes to the situation. Master Soursquat is shattered through the Doppleganger Charm, Mistress, and is looking for Mistress very frantically.'

Salomé frowned, her simmering irritation redirecting and swelling with a silent hiss. Clicking her tongue, she tapped a finger to her chin. "How did he break through it?"

Nanny's ears quivered with agitation. "Master Suorsquat is getting a fire-pigeon call from the Lord Master and Nanny is not hearing what it says but Master ran straight up to the girl with the charm and is touching her on the shoulder, Mistress. Shattered it fully, Master Surosquat did." Nanny's eye widened with mounting concern. In any other house elf, such would have indicated a fear of punishment. Salomé knew differently, however. Nanny never felt fear for herself.

"How inconvenient," she murmured. Clasping her wand in her hand, Salomé rose to her feet. Her attention fixed once more on Ron, Ginny and Hermione. "I believe our time has reached its end.'

Each simultaneously dropped their jaws before all three started to speak at once.

"Wait, you can't just leave now –"

"Why didn't the charm hold? What happened with –?"

"Hey, you can't just go running off –"

" _Enough_."

She didn't speak loudly. Salomé never spoke loudly. It was a skill she'd acquired in her apprenticeship and it was one she was content to flaunt. Salomé knew that simply using that biting tone to slice through babble and chatter like a sharpened razor would cause the hardiest man to flinch. True to expectations, all three babblers blanched and fell silent.

"I indicated that I would stay for as long as possible. I had assumed it would be an hour, but circumstances being as they are…" She trailed off as she flickered her gaze between each set of eyes in turn. She knew the flatness of her own suppressed any inclination for argument. "I'm sure it would be preferable for you at least if I found my dear guard dog before he found me."

With that, she walked purposefully towards the door. Proper etiquette dictated she maintain from Apparating from inside another's house and hasten though she would, years of attending to such decorum prevented her from breaching conduct. Not a one moved to stop her retreat, not even Ron, though she half expected him to.

As she pulled the door open, however, a voice stopped her. "Wait."

Sighing, Salomé barely glanced over her shoulder. "Hermione, I will not –"

"I – I know, you have to leave, but…" Hermione caught her lip between her teeth. Her face, still pale, flushed slightly in her cheeks with discomfort. "Please, Salomé, just one more thing."

Slowly, gaze hooded, Salomé turned back to face the room. Despairing expressions met her own; even Ron, for all his huff and self-righteousness bluster, looked pained by her departure. A faint, unfamiliar twinge niggled at her chest. Salomé smothered it with a forceful shove. "What would you ask?"

Pausing again, Hermione looked as though she was ready to gnaw through her lip. She opened her mouth once, hesitated, and finally managed to force her words out. "You… As far as what Ginny asked you… Where do your loyalties lie, Salomé?"

Both Ron and Ginny turned slowly towards her, each wearing masks bordering on sudden terror intertwined with horror. A flush flooded Ron's cheeks. "Hermione, how could you even ask that?" Apparently his righteousness was an ingrained part of his character, not solely directed at subjects of interrogation.

Salomé merely waited for clarification. She didn't feel angered by the suggestion, but merely curious. Her irritation had even died somewhat into thoughtfulness. Hermione flushed more deeply with her attention, though seemed to steel herself. "It is not entirely unfounded," she said. "You've essentially been Riddle's slave for four years. I – I can hardly bare to think what you've been through, what he's made you do…' She trailed off, but managed to regain her composure rather than await Salomé's reply. "I know you could lie to me. I know that if you were truly under his thumb that you could give any number of misleading answers and I would be none the wiser. But I still have to ask." The steel in her voice had hardened fully now; Salomé heard it resound clearly. "Are you a pawn of the Dark Lord?"

Silence positively bellowed throughout room, so loud Salomé felt her ears ring. She stared straight back at Hermione, ignoring the breathless Ron and Ginny as though they were simply more pieces of discoloured furniture in the small room. She could lie. She could snort and wave the comment off with a derogatory reply. She could scowl and stare daggers that would almost pierce Hermione's skin and definitely cause her to cower.

But she didn't. For some reason she didn't.

"Pawn is a crude word, but no less accurate for its bluntness. The Dark Lord indeed has many 'pawns' and I suppose you could say I was one of them." She pursed her lips, ignoring the widening of eyes and dismay welling in the eyes of those who stared. "At least, that is how he would see it, I am sure."

Fixing her gaze upon Hermione, she narrowed her eyes slightly at the newfound hope swimming just below the surface. "Let me be clear, Hermione. As much as I am no longer Harry Potter, I am not longer your little Saviour. I hesitate to use such black and white perspective, but if I were to align myself I would claim more darkness to my magic than light. I do not fight for your 'Order' as you so name yourselves. And yes, the Dark Lord is more than aware of every element of your workings. He has his eyes and his ears."

Hermione made to interrupt, taking a step forwards, but Salomé cut her off, stilling her with an abruptly raised hand. "And yet let me be equally clear: I do not serve the Dark Lord. He holds my tether, somewhat, true, yet I do not bow to him. Not where it counts. I do not serve the Lord of the Dark, yet I do not serve the light. I serve myself. Only myself."

With that, Salomé turned once more. Again, Hermonie's murmuring plea caught her. She clicked her tongue again, fought the urge to ignore it, but finally turned once more. Hermione had taken two steps towards her, arm outstretched as if to still her in step. "You serve yourself, you say. But you also said you don't serve the Dark Lord." She looked as pleading as she sounded. "If what you suggest is true then… Why do you stay with him? Are you his captive? You said tether –"

"A tether I could wrench from his grasp if I was so required, I assure you." Salomé raised her chin defiantly. She didn't bother to withhold the scowl that curled her lip, the frown that impressed her forehead. "I act according to my own judgements. I am not fool enough to believe that Riddle's reign of power – for unobtrusive though it may be, it is still a reign – should be left to manifest indefinitely. He needs to be eradicated, like a plague from the veins of the Wizarding world." She bit herself off with the urge to hiss.

Apparently Salomé had sounded far colder than she had intended. Indeed, through the detached eyes of reflection, she considered that perhaps she had allowed her emotions to get the better of her. She did not regret it, however, not even when Hermione took a step back towards Ron's hunching figure and Ginny failed to suppress a shiver.

"So… what are you doing?"

She was persistent, Salomé would acknowledge that much. Even visibly unhinged as she was, Hermione still sought answers. Aware of the time she wasted though she was, Salomé found herself replying with as much his as before. "Voldemort is the madman who captured me, tortured me, the insanity that had warped Tom Riddle from what little humanity he originally possessed. Riddle is different from who he was in the past. The Riddle of _now_ , he is the wizard I have made him.' Salomé felt a self-satisfied smile creep onto her lips that felt almost a snarl. "Or at least shaped, in my own way. He's a fire locked in a ring of stones, stemmed from spreading and wreaking havoc. He still requires his titbits, his never-ending stream of malice that feeds him, but… yes, he is controllable.'

"So you, what, you control him?' Hermione's furrowed her brow, incredulity stifling her fear. "For what? If you control him, what are you waiting for?" Then, almost panicked, "Stop him. You can _end_ this.'

Raising an eyebrow at the outburst and effectively forcing Hermione to retreat further like a snail into her shell, Salomé eased her scowl into a sardonic smirk. "You really don't know anything, do you?"

"What?"

Uttering a low, humourless laugh that was hardly a laugh at all, Salomé turned towards the door. "Ask Dumbledore about Horcruxes sometime, Hermione. I'm sure it would be an enlightening conversation." And with that, she left the room to frozen silence.


	6. Silhouette of a Dancer

Mister Suorsquat was indeed angry, though he didn't let it show. Not very much, anyway. Or perhaps the disgruntled expression Salomé always saw affixed to his face simply hid any further anger he may have expressed. He was a bear of a man, tall and imposing with a face just as long and a nose like a snout. Not particularly attractive, but he did his job. Privately, Salomé suspected Riddle purposely chose the characters who wore constant grimaces to be her attendants on her outdoor trips. They certainly provided a good deterrent to unwelcome approaches.

Upon rounding a busy corner on the streets of London, Suorsquat nearly fell to the sidewalk in his haste to avoid tripping over Salomé as she stepped into his path. He steadied himself quickly, however, and dropped his voice so that his usual growl was barely a grumble of half-formed words. "Lady, where have you been? I've been searching for you across –"

"That is not your concern, Suorsquat. I am back, and that is all you need be aware of." Avoiding his intent stare, Salomé drew her gaze around herself slowly, eyes grazing over the bobbing heads of passing Muggles in a searching sweep. It was all a farce, of course. Such a searching gaze gave an impression of disdain to her bodyguard, Salomé knew, as though his question truly were none of his concern. Was it cruel and unwarranted? Maybe a little, but at least it lit such a fire of wariness within the Dark witches and wizards that often swarmed around her that Salomé was afforded a modicum of distancing.

From the corner of her eye, Salomé noted the battle waging across Suorsquat's rugged face. He was a sight to behold, stark and distinct against the background of Muggle London. Unlike many witches and wizards, those that worked closest under Riddle rarely deigned to alter their attire when daring to step amongst Muggles. As such, Suorsquat made an even more imposing figure than his impressive stature would have afforded on its own; dark black robes strained across his shoulders, a high necked collar and long sleeves left only his pale face and clenched fists exposed. Accompanied by his permanent frown, it left Salomé with no doubt as to the cause behind the wide radius the Muggles passing them seemed to instinctively create.

Finally, Suorsquat seemed to regain his composure. "His Excellency wishes your return, my Lady. Swiftly, he requested."

Biting back a sigh at the term – really, Excellency? – Salomé arched an eyebrow. "But of course. You received a fire-pigeon; I would not think to leave him waiting. Come along, Suorsquat, do not dally."

It was all a dance. A game of sorts. Give a hint here, another there. Suggest greater knowledge of the situation than one possessed, than one _should_ possess, and garnish it all with a cherry of condescension. The act worked like a charm. Salomé was disliked but no one dared to cross her. Similarly, most of Riddle's subordinates generally kept their distance unless otherwise ordered. The situation suited her just fine.

Flicking her fingers at the man as though beckoning a well-trained dog, Salomé turned on her heel and strode in the opposite direction he'd come. 'Always take the lead' was another strategy. If she had instead followed Suorsquat like a scolded puppy, his own sense of justification and confidence in effectively ordering her from her afternoon stroll would be intensified. And that would not do. At all.

They wove through the Muggles easily enough. Even in motion, every passer-by maintained their distance, as though negatively magnetised. Likely the impression of a dark cloud that Salomé's body guard presented as he trailed behind her had something to do with that.

Turning into an alleyway, Salomé took three steps into the shadows before sweeping her wand behind herself in a Disillusionment Charm across the alley entrance. Many wizards and witches nowadays disdained such acts, claiming that should they wish to Apparate in the middle of a crossroads surrounded by Muggles then they damned well could. The Department of Wizard-Muggle Interactions had expanded exponentially as a result in recent years. Salomé suspected it was likely due to tracking down and _Obliviat_ ing Muggles more than anything else.

With another sweep of her wand and a murmur beneath her breath, Salomé cast a Reverse Transfiguration enchantment on her clothes. With a ripple like cascading water, the simple Muggle attire swished and billowed into a floor-length robe of emerald and silver. It was ridiculous for the middle for London, more resembling a gothic debutante gown than casual wear, but it was perfect for meeting an archaic and ridiculously powerful Dark Lord. A Dark Lord who was oddly scrupulous about such details.

The hem of her robes had barely shed itself of the last of its denim before Salomé was Apparating with a crack from the sidewalk. She instinctively held her breath, pushing out with her lungs in a method she'd long ago learned could counteract the dizziness that accompanied such transport. A moment later, Salomé settled touched down in the centre of the Riddle Manor secondary parlour. Specifically designated for just such a purpose, it was a room bare of furnishings and windows, dimly lit by only candle-bearing sconces on each wall. Suorsquat popped into existence beside her a moment later.

Salomé was already halfway through the door before her bodyguard had even begun to follow. "You may leave now, Suorsquat," she said, stepping through the doorway.

"My Lady, I really think I should –"

"Odd. I don't recall asking for your opinion." Salomé didn't spare Suorsquat a glance as she passed into the wide, marble-floored entrance hall. As bare as the parlour, it glowed with an ambient light that reflected off the blue-veined floors, the wide, towering columns that supported the upper storeys of the manor. Salomé's words echoed off the high ceilings, resounding through the emptiness. "As it is, I no longer require your accompaniment." Picking up her skirts in both hands, she started up the wide, shallow steps of the central staircase, feet silent on the equally wide carpet that ran like a runner down the centre..

Salomé didn't turn to ensure that Suorsquat remained behind. She knew he hadn't agreed and turned to leave the entrance hall, but similarly knew he wouldn't accompany her. Confidence in her own authority would have assured Salomé of that had the stuttering pause of his footsteps failed to do so. A loyal supporter of Riddle, he wouldn't _dare_ cross her, and that was disregarding his own fear of reprimand that Salomé was more than capable of – and had in the past been responsible for – delivering with detached proficiency.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Salomé turned right and made her way down the echoing emptiness of corridors. Everything in Riddle Manor was wide; tall ceilings abounded, rich carpets of dark colouration drawing trailing up the centre of every hallway and moated by dark stone floors. The occasional portrait lined the walls, spaced evenly between curtained windows, but otherwise there was little by way of furnishings. No personalisation so to speak. It was hardly a home but more the castle of the devil. The frequent recurrence of candles dripping wax from their candelabra did little to alleviate the darkness that shrouded the gloomy interior.

Salomé hadn't needed to ask Suorsquat where Riddle was. He would be found in one of three places; the Meeting Hall, the library study, or his suites. Given the hour, she could effectively rule out the latter two possibilities. Besides, Riddle would only send a fire-pigeon indirectly when he was in a meeting. Any other demand for her attention would be by direct request.

There were a number of doors along the main corridor into the east wing. All of them were darkwood and all of them closed imposingly. Likely locked, too, though Salomé doubted that would be much of a problem had she truly wished to access them. As impeding as double-layered hardwood could be, she knew for a fact that they couldn't withstand her _Bombarda_. Wesley Forbes, another of Riddle's apprentices, had realised that the hard way after he'd attempted to covet one of Salomé's drafts on necrophilic potions ingredients. Suffice it to say, Wesley didn't even bother locking his door anymore. He seemed to have lost his faith in them entirely.

The double doors at the very end of the sharp-turning corridor stretched nearly to the roof in a glaring extension of dark, carved ebony. Salomé had once wondered why everything in Riddle Manor had to be larger than life. Until she realised the foolishness of her own thoughts, for of _course_ it would be. Why would Riddle hesitate in undertaking any form of intimidation? He'd constructed the building within an inch of his every desire, and that inch that wasn't scrupulously attended to was minimal enough not to count.

Salomé didn't knock on the double doors. To do so would suggest she awaited the convenience of others. Instead, with a slight push of her hand to open it a fraction, she slid into the room and eased the door closed behind her. There was no click of a latch, no creak to alert the dozen or so men and women in attendance.

The Meeting Hall was impressive to say the least, but then so was the rest of the manor. The continuous marble floor patterned in that same blue venation as the rest of the building and navy curtains hung from the roof to section off the room if necessary. Salomé had never seen them used. Overhead, a chandelier that was modest only in that it held no bejewelling or additional adornment hung suspend. In terms of size, it breathed grandeur. Over one hundred candles spluttered in an imaginary wind, bathing the room below with the radiance of a wan sun. Besides that, the only furnishings of the room other than the long expanse of the meeting table was an ivory grand piano that to most would appear oddly out of place secreted to the left of the doorway.

The distinct difference of the Meeting Hall over the rest, however, was the throne placed at one end before what could only be described as an audience of chairs arranged around a long extension of table. Though on the same level as the rest of the seats, the sheer magnitude of the structure gave the impression of superiority in the seater. At least, it did when Riddle sat upon it. From the moment Salomé stepped into the room, even across the expanse of empty floor and along the empty spread of the table, her eyes were drawn directly towards him.

To him. No one could not look to him. He drew attention like a dark scar in the air, foreboding and threatening of danger should one turn their back.

What she saw gave her contemplative pause. The slight lean to the left in Riddle's posture, the hand resting just beneath his jaw, the downward cast to his eyes… the man didn't look at the witch that was currently speaking, even with her evident enthusiasm. Salomé was momentarily distracted by the wide sweep of the blonde woman's arm.

"Pickling is a Muggle-loving fool. Your Excellency, I agree with you whole-heartedly. If one were to designate titles, to reappoint members in such an integral position, such a choice would be ludicrous." The woman snapped her jaws like an alligator with an audible click. Though Salomé couldn't see her face, the slight slouch in her seat bespoke self-satisfaction.

 _Foolish woman. Does she think he will approve of such an outburst_?

"I was not disagreeing with His Excellency, Julius." A portly greying man leant heavily upon the table before him, his head slightly bowed. Though his words were directed towards the woman, his posture indicated he spoke to Riddle. "Merely that, given the circumstance, I feel that there is no alternative –"

"Kimberly? Epswith? Redwood, Godfrey, Mullant?" A younger man with thin lips and an expression of deliberate commiseration interrupted his elder. "Any would be a finer choice than Pickling. Mister Ignius, please, be reasonable. The minister's position is an important role to fill. Consideration should be given the utmost scrutiny –"

"But we don't have the time," Ignius continued. Salomé could almost see the sweat sprouting from his crown. "Underly is on his last legs as deputy, and without appropriate intervention such matters will be left up to the public to reappoint him and leave us without specific designation in the matter of primary ministerial representatives. Such a travesty _cannot_ be allowed to occur."

 _Ah, I understand now_. Salomé nodded to herself. How foolish of the lords and ladies in attendance to think that any of them truly had a say in the matter. And from the serious expressions of those she could see, Salomé knew they truly believed they did. _Foolish, foolish little bugs_.

It was Riddle's expression, though, that gave her pause. Perhaps to another it would not have raised question. It could be said that he was in a state of immobilised calm, simply listening and filing away the opinions of his fellows. But that would be to one who did not truly understand him. For Salomé knew, from the set of his shoulders to the barely noticeable twitch of the muscle in his jaw, that Riddle was about two words from snapping someone's neck.

Ensuring that she hadn't been seen, Salomé turned immediately and slipped silently back out of the room. Her wand slid into her hand with a flick of the wrist, and in moments she conjured her Patronus.

_If only Ron, Hermione and Ginny could see this._

The sudden thought caused her to pause for a moment, staring at the wrath-like creature before her. It was the unexpectedness of their meeting, to be sure, the revelation she had provided, but Salomé hadn't expected thoughts of them to linger. She shook it off after a moment and switched her attention back to the conjugation.

It wasn't a stag. That much was blatantly obvious to anyone with half a brain. Instead, a wolf-like creature, as tall as she, stood stoically before her. The spotted patterning, the strong jaw bared in a constant half-snarl and the mane-like ruff resembled a hyena but that was where the similarities ended. Salomé's Patronus wasn't a hyena. Nor was it a dog, or a wolf, or a lion. Rather, something more of a mix of the three.

It was after her sixteenth birthday the first time Salomé had managed to conjure a Patronus since her wand had been returned to her. Only at sixteen had she realised the shape was changing. It would not settle on a corporeal form for nearly another year, and at that time was distinctly _other_ than the regal stag it once was. Riddle had been ecstatic upon glimpsing its corporeal form for the first time. Well, as ecstatic as Riddle ever became. Such ecstasy consisted of a wide, predatory smile and a purely manic gleam in his eye.

"My dear, you seem to have developed a magical creature for your Patronus."

At that point, Salomé was relatively settled in her role by the man's side. She felt little compunction raising her eyebrow and questioning the suggestion. "And what makes you think that?"

Riddle's smile had broadened. "Simply that I am aware of what exactly your little creature is." He purred the words, as though hovering over a particularly delectable morsel. "Remarkable…"

Salomé regarded him with mild exasperation that she kept well concealed. The man would continue skirting her question unless she forced it from him. And delicately, baiting was the way to go about it rather than a deliberate grab for the answer that would just as likely send him laughing like a hysterical maniac as it would to pulling out her tongue. "As remarkable as your basilisk? Surely not. I have never seen this creature before," she flicked her fingers disdainfully at the prowling hyena-wolf, "but it could surely not be nearly as impressive as your basilisk."

Riddle turned amused eyes upon her. He revelled in the form of his own Patronus, a spell of which Salomé had once been surprised that he was capable of conjuring. But then… it always had felt just a little _different_. Not quite the vibrantly pure conjugation that Salomé had once known the Patronus as being. "Perhaps not as dangerous as a basilisk, but a crocotta is impressive in its own right. A trickster, as it were, a master of deception yet deadly to those that stray into its clutches." Drifting closer to her, Riddle's gaze shifted their focus. It was still hungry, but in an entirely different way.

Feigning ignorance of his advance, Salomé turned thoughtfully towards her Patronus. "A trickster. Well, I suppose that's appropriate." Just how appropriate she would ensure Riddle never learned. _He_ assumed that any beguiling nature on her part revolved around the concealment of her past. How wrong he was.

The spectre remained for only a moment more, however, as with a final step Riddle was upon her and she was effectively embroiled in too much distraction to persist with the focus required to maintain the spell.

 _A crocotta_. Salomé stared at the Patronus before her for a moment longer. _Time to once more play your part, my trickster_. Casting a Verbal-Adhesion Charm, she affixed her message.

"Master Owens, I would you could join me at the Meeting Hall. Now, if you would be so kind." Demand as it was, Salomé ensured her tone remained cordial enough. Owens was of a higher social status than any of her bodyguards, and keeping in his good graces was an asset to her wellbeing. And to any manipulations she may wish to attempt with his accompaniment.

Her words must have been mellow enough, for a moment later the man clapped into existence beside her. The manor was large enough that it held its own exclusive dome of Apparation. Subordinates used it and blessed its existence. It did not pay to be late with a cup of tea or a hasty report when Dark Lords, Ladies and Death Eaters were involved.

Owens was a younger man, not yet twice Salomé's age. She had her suspicions that his visage of youthfulness was due primarily to his expressionlessness; no matter what was directed towards him – compliments, criticisms or demands – Owens gave not a twitch of an eyebrow. Even his eyes were expressionless. That was not to say he felt no emotion, however. Simply that he did not display such emotion in any physical manifestation of smiles or frowns. Salomé liked that about him, liked the mystery entailed with his companionship. Which was a good thing, really, as they spent a considerable amount of time together.

"You called, my Lady?" Owens said. His voice was smooth, rich, unlike the flatness of his expression. One could almost hear the slide of a bow strumming across his vocal cords.

Tipping her head, Salomé nodded. "I appreciate your swift response," she said. Gesturing towards the doors behind her, she started back towards them. Owens followed in her wake. "My Lord is currently holding a meet, and I believe it would be beneficial to all involved to provide accompaniment. Would you not agree?"

Owens only nodded in reply. There was no hint in his eyes, in his face, of whether he agreed with her or thought her a fool for stepping into that which was better left untouched. Or perhaps he truly was nonchalant; they'd stepped through such a routine enough times that it could be expected that he would care.

Slipping back into the room, Salomé made her way over to the piano. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she noted the slightly lower dip to Riddle's chin, his heavy brow nearly shadowing his eyes. The arguments of the lords and ladies in attendance had risen in intensity, it seemed, and Ignius' spluttering was nearly drowned out by that of the woman Julius.

Ignoring them both, Salomé idled only long enough for Owens to take his seat on the piano stool. He paused as he lifted the lid off the keys, half-turning towards her. "Your request, my Lady?"

Smiling indulgently, Salomé lifted a shoulder. "Surprise me."

Owens lips tilted in the barest hint of a smile. A moment later and Salomé may as well have disappeared for all the attention he afforded her, turning from her. The faint sound of the piano breathed quietly throughout the room. Quiet at first at least. Gradually, with the gradualism of an rising wind, the melody trickled and spread the room, extending delicate fingers across the marble floor.

Stepping away from the piano, Salomé glided into the open space between door and table. There was certainly adequate space to extend herself. The table, while large and long, barely extended half the length of the room. All faces were at least half turned towards their Lord, who seemed to be growing steadily darker and angrier with every passing moment. Salomé was surprised that none of them could see it.

Slipping her shoes off and kicking them into non-existence with a swish of her wand, Salomé closed her eyes and sunk into the lilting music. Quiet, hesitant almost, and yet so…

 _Scriabin,_ she thought, and couldn't keep the faint quirk of a smirk from her face. She recognised the song, the composer, yet couldn't place the name of the piece. Perhaps not appropriate for a council meeting, but for Salomé it bordered on ideal.

The sound of the piano had not yet encroached upon the discussion across the room – such was apparent from the continued ring of argument – but for now, Salomé detached herself from such concerns. To focus instead upon the performance she'd set herself. She drifted instead upon the gentle undulation of music. The faint melody that seemed to grow louder in her ears as her focus narrowed. With a gentle easing from one foot to another, swaying to the music, she felt her skirts swish around her ankles and had a moment to think detachedly _"at least they're light skirts"_ before she fell beneath the waves.

Salomé danced.

It was a directionless motion, with no choreography. She allowed her body to simply move to the music, sinking from one twirl into another with no apparent rhyme or reason. Her arms extended of their own accord, feet sweeping across the floor in trailing curls, hips rolling in fluid rotations. Salomé listened to the music and fell into the motions of what came naturally. It was as easy as breathing.

For years, her life had been a duet of magic and dance that wove into the intricate game of politics and tempting the devil. Had she paused to consider, Salomé could not have stated which predominated. Both were equally prominent in her memories of the years under Riddle's 'care'.

It had all begun after one rather unfortunate comment from a man who went by the name Bartemius Crouch Jr. The son of the now-deceased ministry official, his passing mention to Harry Potter's participation in the Yule Ball in his fourth year of Hogwarts attendance had tickled the Dark Lord's fancy. At the time, Harry was barely more than a pet; he was struck with a scolding by tongue and lashed for indiscretions though just as often afforded a caress upon the head like a mellow hound when performing well. 'Eternal partners' or not, Voldemort had decided his newest toy would need to be broken before played with. Besides, the transition into womanhood, into the fitted form of Voldemort's tastes, was only just ironing out its jagged creases. The Dark Lord was more curious than anything else of the creature he had created.

With Crouch's comment, he seemed to latch onto the thought with astounding intensity. Expelling his subordinates from the room, the snake-faced man turned to the girl he had built. A smile spread across his lipless face and with a hiss-like whisper he prodded her with a toe.

"How interesting. Would you not give me a demonstration? I would so love to see you dance." There was amusement in his tone, ringing in his words, and the girl had flinched into her hunched curl. The toe prod had returned, however, and unwilling to face the man's wrath, she had risen.

And she had danced.

Truly, Harry Potter could not dance. Harry Potter may as well have been gifted with two left feet for all his grace upon the dance floor. Perhaps Voldemort had been amused by the girl's ineptitude; her inelegance in such areas had not been erased with her metamorphosis. He had certainly appeared amused in a terrifying sort of way. But he hadn't scolded her, nor struck her for her ineptitude. Instead, he'd made her learn.

The girl could never quite reason why he had chosen to do so. Was it simply a flight of fancy, a mild curiosity, to see what would become of such a hapless dancer thrust into an entirely new world? Or was it simply somewhere to throw her, an activity to fill her long hours of silence as she was not yet trusted with a wand?

For whatever reason, the girl regretted it within hours of her first lesson. Her instructors were rigorous, gruelling. Five in total, when one wearied of their teaching another would arrive to continue in an entirely different form of dance. They seemed to care little for the weariness, the physical strain, placed upon the shoulders of their pupil. Of greater concern was the product; what the Dark Lord demanded, he received, and if that demand was to make a dancer out of a lump of unyielding clay, then so be it. The girl was driven to exhaustion time and time again with each passing day.

Voldemort would always ask to see the developments. Every day, he would pause in his world domination to view the girl's progress, and would watch with an amused smile as she struggled to perform on the brink of collapse. Yet slowly, steadily, that smile had shifted, changing. Over the weeks, amusement faded into thoughtfulness, into curiosity, and gradually heated into a gaze so intense that, even in the throughs of her dancing, the girl could feel its punishing glare.

Before two months of practice had passed, the Dark Lord had fully overturned his perspective of his little toy. Before her fifteenth birthday, the girl who grew into Salomé also became the lover of the darkest and most powerful man in the Wizarding world.

The dancing had been a herculean trial at first. Salomé remembered hating it, hating the motions, the exhaustion, the torrent of sweat the sprouted from trembling skin as she struggled to drag herself to her feet before the physical and verbal demands of her 'teachers'. Her treatment had never softened exactly, even when her competency grew, and yet somewhere along the way something shifted. She didn't know what had triggered it first; perhaps the gaze of Voldemort, his red eyes burning with a previously unseen desire. Or perhaps it was the ballet instructor who was the first to inflict upon her the passions that paralleled that of the dance. She couldn't remember the name of the man. When Voldemort had discovered his transgression, he had neatly been deprived of his head. He hadn't even been afforded a moment to plead for forgiveness.

For whatever reason, whatever triggered the suspicion that manifested into a spawning master plan, Salomé used her gifts. Her weariness faded some into resilient strength with each hour of practice. Focus shifted from exhaustion to refinement, honing a skill she could never have anticipated herself capable of possessing.

Salomé used it mercilessly and unabashedly, and though it was apparent that all were not so oblivious to her deceptions and manipulations – Owens was certainly aware – none were unaffected by them. She knew this too. Knew it, and used it to the best of her ability. For even knowingly captivated by the motions of dance, by the passions it elicited, Salomé could play her spellbound audience like a puppeteer would his wooden children.

The music now rung clearly in her ears. Owens was truly the ideal companion for Salomé's farce. He seemed to read her intentions and act upon them accordingly; his music always suited the scene, suited her intentions, perfectly. For whatever reason, he continued his silent assistance as though to simply play was reason enough. He seemed nothing if not amused by her performance, as though Salomé were a child at harmless play rather than an enchantress manoeuvring the decisions of the most powerful man in Britain.

Glancing in a passing moment towards the man bowed over his piano, Salomé caught his eye and dropped her chin briefly. He gave a nod of his own in reply and smoothly, like water rippling over river-worn pebbles, he intensified his music further. Deepening, pooling, it breathed with a life of its own.

Salomé didn't need to glance towards the counsellors, the lords and ladies at the table, to know that they now watched her every move. Their stalled voices was indication enough. Nor did she need to spare a glance to ensure that Riddle held her in his gaze, a moth caught by the vibrant blaze of a dancing fire. Without thought, turning in a sweeping twirl, she drew upon the magic within her and let it burst in a wave of coiling tendrils.

Far from classical ballet, Salomé danced as her body felt natural. As her magic directed. When the magic was drawn, incorporated into the dance itself, she merely became a vassal for the rippling undulations of power. Such was the mastery of Synchrynomancy, the act of incorporating magic into the non-magical arts. It took years of rigorous study to become adept at such manipulation, at such application, but Salomé was confident in her abilities as a Praesulmagus, a dancer magician, to spare the performance barely a second of thought.

Magic wove through her limbs, invigorating muscles like a rush of energy. Salomé's fingertips tingled, itching to stretch, to elongate, to release the pent up power. She didn't hold back, and like a stream of gossamer veil flowing from her skin, her magic drifted around her. It embraced her, wrapped her in insubstantial clouds of silvery light that shimmered into near-colour. Turning a slow pirouette that fanned her skirts around her, Salomé extended her arms above her head in fifth position, hands posed in _arrondi,_ and let the veil-like tendrils of magic dribble down her arms. They flared in spreading lengths, in wings of light.

A half turn into an _arabesque_ , the magical weaves falling over her shoulders.

Leaping and turning between the rapid shuffle of _batterie_.

Slowing into _balance_ yet loosening her arms in the embrace of her veil-like magic and easing the rigidity of its classical form.

She flowed from one movement to the next with utter detachment, lost in the movements of dance, leaping into _grand jete_ that extended high and beyond the realms of possible suspension as magic cradled her limbs and gracefully, slowly, lowered her to the ground.

It was intoxicating. And even without stretching, even with the knowledge of a possible muscular strain come morning, so deep was the dance that such worries were barely negligible.

Salomé was only detachedly aware as the members of the room departed. She hadn't heard Riddle order them to leave but he must have done. The Dark Lord's correspondents were silent, scurrying as they scuttled through the doors, yet even with their heads bowed and even only distantly aware as she was, Salomé could make out the eyes that fastened on her fixedly. It was only when the doors closed nearly inaudibly that the intensity of their stares abruptly dispelled. She barely noticed; her magic had lifted her in its loving embrace like a partner, curling around her waist and thighs and she was swept into a fish dive of trailing arms and flowing skirts. The magic was her partner, the arms that lifted her from her feet. It was the only partner she needed.

"You may leave."

The words were not for Salomé, she knew. She didn't even pause in her dancing to pinpoint the subject of Riddle's words, unconsciously falling into another turn. Her unconscious suspicions were confirmed when, a moment later, the music paused, wavered, and ceased to exists. Salomé didn't stop. The magic coiling around her, through her, was music enough, supplementing the absence of sound in a thrumming harmony that beat to its own tune. A moment later, Owens barely audible steps tapped past her. He didn't even spare her a glance before he too disappeared through the double doors.

Salomé wasn't sure how long she continued to dance. Once she would have counted the seconds, aching for a reprieve, for a brief respite from throbbing limbs and gasping breaths. Now… dancing was as _easy_ as breathing. One did not count one's breaths, monitoring the moments that passed between each inhalation and count until the next. It simply happened.

She hadn't realised she'd closed her eyes until she felt hands slide around her waist. Riddle had approached quite without her knowledge, easing through the insubstantial folds of her magic and drifting into the steps of her dance. Salomé slowed her dance, still swaying from foot to foot yet pausing in her forward movements and turns. Like slipping into water, Riddle fell into step with her drifting movements.

Slowly, gradually, Salomé's unspoken music quelled. The silence that followed was stagnant like the clear surface of an untouched pool.

Riddle was the one to send a ripple across that tranquil surface.

"You distracted me."

Easing in his loose grasp, Salomé turned to face him, chest to chest. "Yes. Are you complaining?"

Anyone else, anyone in the world, would have been cursed into oblivion at the presumptuousness of her question, but Salomé only received a slow, wide smile in reply. "Complain? To be relieved of the preserve of such bumbling fools?"

Riddle was an attractive man, far from the snake-like creature that had first arisen from a rusted cauldron in the middle of a graveyard four years prior. Perhaps thirty years old from the visage he wore, his face were chiselled like the stone of an ancient Roman statue, his features just as patrician. A straight nose and strong brow, piercing dark eyes and perfectly curved lips; not a blemish marred his almost deathly pale skin.

Salomé couldn't complain. She could recognise beauty when she beheld it, even if such beauty concealed a stinking rot of corruption and malice. For her, it was a blessing. Salomé knew Riddle was inhuman, and the facade of Voldemort he'd shed like a snake shrugging from an old skin embodied such inhumanity as a phoenix embodied fire. _This_ Riddle, this cool, collected, handsome man who held all enthralled and terrified with both his physical charm and his incredible magical power… hated though he was, resistant to the hypnotism that seemed to grasp everyone else, Salomé could _appreciate_ it.

There was something so delicious about such extreme darkness and power. About the thought of crushing it was _so_ tantalising.

Raising her arms slowly, Salomé draped them around Riddle's neck, one hand rising to tug gently at his short, dark curls. "I thought as much. Just which were you intending to kill first?"

Sinking into her physical pull, Riddle pressed himself against her. His expression was composed, controlled, and yet… perhaps only Salome could perceive it but he seemed to ease beneath her direction like a candle blown in a soft breath. "Rightly, I believe them all to be petty cretins. They should all be destroyed."

"Perhaps," Salomé said, tilting her head and letting her eyes drift towards the now-empty Meet table. It seemed impossibly long when bereft as it was of seaters.

"You disagree?"

"To their foolishness?" Salomé flicked her glance back towards him and raised an eyebrow. "I am not so accommodating as claim so."

Riddle's lips twitched in a smirk. It was far removed from the penetrating and destructive glare that had clouded his face not minutes an hour before. "Fools, they are. Pathetic and tiresome, it would be so much more convenient to simply crush them."

"Ah, my love, but then where would we be?"

It was not a new conversation, this rearing of Riddle's malice and Salomé's restraining hand. If Riddle had his way, all who defied him, who disagreed with him, even those who vexed him, would burn in flames or crumple in a pool of blood as their hearts were torn from their chests. Salomé did not care for the politicians, the ministers and the pure-blooded families, mindless killing was not high on her list of preferential treatment of irritants. If one were to kill, it must be the only remaining solution.

That was one of only few morals she still maintained.

Raising his own hand to her hair, Riddle stroked fingers through her curls, pulling lightly on the tips. "I could get more."

"And you would kill them too."

"They could be better. More obedient. Talk less."

"Or they could be worse." In a motion so recurring as to be now natural, Salomé lightly slapped Riddle's fingers from her hair. She regarded him with a hooded gaze, capturing his own. "These men and women, these pathetic little pawns, they are tiresome, yes, but you rule them."

"I know," Riddle growled, though the attentiveness of his gaze assured Salomé that any anger he held was not directed towards her. "And as a ruler I should hold the right to command decisions. To direct managerial movements. To sweep aside any who threaten –"

"You already do." Salomé interrupted him in clipped words. "You have, at every instance, demonstrated your formidability by commanding those lesser than yourself without the need for shedding seas of blood. You hold their respect."

"I should also hold their fear."

"And you do." Another stroke through Riddle's hair, drawing nails lightly across his scalp, had him muttering in another growl. It was a very different growl this time. "There are various kinds of fear. There is that which entices rebellion." Another stroke. "And that which triggers obedience." She allowed a small smile to curl her lips. "You know which is the more desirable for a ruler's longevity."

Riddle hummed, and there was pleasure in his voice now. Salomé bit back a snort. How easily he caved under the word 'ruler', especially when still captured in the residual magic of her Synchyromancy. She had conditioned him to as much, but it was almost pathetic. "And long-term I shall be. We shall not stop at Britain, you and I."

"Of course." Salomé dipped her chin in a nod, as much an acknowledgement of the recognised dual leadership as to support his claim. "But Britain must first be held steadily within your grasp."

"It has been four years," Riddle muttered. His eyes skittered to the side, seething and glaring into an unseen distance. "It has been too long."

"What is time," Salomé murmured soothingly, "when we have all the time in the world? Lifetimes, my love."

It was the right thing to say. Riddle's lips curled in satisfaction, and when he turned his gaze down upon Salomé once more there was a light in his eyes. A light that, while familiar, never ceased to churn Salomé's gut in roiling waves. "All the time in the world."

The kiss Riddle dropped upon her lips was impossibly gentle for one so forceful, so twisted and hateful as to be lacking in human emotion entirely. Salomé responded in kind, striving to extend the chastity of their contact by dropping her hands down between them.

It didn't last long. In moments Riddle was pulling her more tightly to his chest, a hand curling behind her head to tangle in curls and crush her lips more firmly against his own. His mouth worked, demanding, tongue persistent in its assault until Salomé opened her lips in permission. Their breaths mixed, warmth and wetness flowing between them as their tongues coiled in a dance nearly as elaborate as Salomé's Praeselmancy. When they finally broke apart, both were short of breath.

"Where were you today?" Riddle murmured.

Pausing, allowing her breathlessness to excuse her delayed response, Salomé schooled her features. _And now it is time to bow low. Never tempt the awakened wolf._ Leaning into him until it was almost too hard to breath, Salomé widened her eyes in an expression of innocence and blinked slowly. "London."

"Where in London?" Riddle's voice was a juxtaposing mixture of chilled interrogation and passionate heat. "I called for you, but you didn't answer."

Raising one shoulder, Salomé shrugged. "I was veiling myself."

"From me?"

"From everyone." Dropping her chin, Salomé glanced sideways. _Reluctant, hesitant, bashful…_ "I am not so ignorant, nor so confident, as to believe that there would not be an army of wizards and witches that lust for my blood."

Riddle hissed in a sound so reminiscent of a snake that Salomé felt her eyes drawn unconsciously towards him simply to check that the visage of his human self still remained affixed. A fearsome glare narrowed his eyes and for a moment their darkness flashed red. "None would dare."

"They would dare," Salomé said, lowering her voice. "And they would likely manage. I am not you, my Lord. People do not fear me." Which was a lie, but… well, Riddle didn't need to know just how much of a lie it was.

"Not yet, perhaps. But they will." His handsome face became ugly as it twisted into a snarl. His hold around her waist became painful, pinching her skin through her bodice. "Your guards would be pathetic in such a confrontation. Useless excuses for witches and wizards; it vexes me greatly that there are none adept enough to adequately protect you."

"They are enough. They will serve, at least until they are no longer necessary. Enough to protect me from any attempts on my life. And until then –"

Riddle's lip curled in a snarl. "I will destroy anyone who contemplates such a heinous act."

 _Heinous to you, maybe. You're obsessed._ Salomé bit back on the thought before it could voice itself. She only offered a small smile in response before rising onto her toes to press another soft kiss to his lips. While it didn't dispel his fury entirely, the lustful heat that rose nearly swept it aside.

Riddles arms loosened slightly yet didn't let go. He would never let go. "The Malfoy boy. What do you think of him?"

Pulling back slightly, Salomé blinked rapidly at the sudden change in topic. "What of him?"

"The Malfoys seek a hand-fasting."

"And?"

Another, nearly silent hiss slithered past Riddle's lips. "I would kill the little white rat before permitting such. You are _mine_. I will not allow you to be taken from me. You know this." His glare returned. "And you have not denied him."

"It is hardly my place to do so," Salomé tossed her head, flicking the loose strands of wayward hair over her shoulder. "My hand is not my own to fasten."

Riddle's narrowed eyes became thoughtful. "Is that so?"

"It is," Salomé rose onto her toes once more. "I am, my Lord, completely and entirely yours."

Whether it was the low seduction she impressed in her words, the warm proximity of their bodies, or the very words themselves, Salomé was not sure, but a moment later Riddle's expression shed every last trace of anger. A predatory smile bared his teeth terrifyingly. "Yes, you are."

A moment later Riddle Apparted them into non-existence, moving towards his suites in the blink of an eye. The Meet Hall was left hollow and empty in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! Hope you liked the chapter. If you did, please leave a review to let me know your thoughts.
> 
> Just so you know, yes, I did make up theSynchrynomancy and Praeselmancy. Explained in the chapter, yeah, but just as a reminder: Synchrynomancy is the combination of magic with non-magical arts i.e. dancing, singing, painting etc. Praeselmancy is dancing-magic.
> 
> Also, just as a little aside for anyone who cares, Salomé is a biblical name (pronounced Sah-low-may), but I actually was kind of inspired to name her such from the song "Salomé" by Xandria. If anyone's interested, I don't know why but it just sort of seems to fit perfectly with her character in this story. The lyrics are just... urgh, perfect! If you've got a second and the inclination, I definitely recommend checking it out.


	7. Stand By You

Cedric was livid.

It was a herculean task to restrain the boiling anger that coursed through his veins, yet somehow he managed. It would not do to erupt with the explosiveness of a volcano in the middle of an Order meeting; Dumbledore was not above suggesting that members temporarily remove themselves when caught in the throughs of intense emotion. He had more than enough members that would ensure his suggestion became a command.

Such knowledge did nothing to soothe the gaping wound that spilled anger like blood with each throb of his heartbeat. Cedric was _furious_. And Dumbledore was only one of the drivers of his anger.

The first – and perhaps the greatest – cause was that he hadn't been _told_. More than that, Hermione had deemed it within her right to withhold Harry's identity from Cedric for long enough that Harry himself had disappeared into the unseen distance before he could even catch a glimpse.

No, not Harry. _Salomé_.

Hermione had told him, had called him 'the moment Salomé had disappeared from the Fred and George's living room' as she had claimed. She'd given him a blow-by-blow of exactly what had happened, of how they had realised that _Salomé Belaire_ was Harry, and with the precision of a perfectionist recited every word of their discussion.

Cedric had maintained his calm for long enough to hear the entire tale. Then he had snapped.

It would have been an understatement to say that Hermione, Ron and Ginny had flinched from his fury. Cedric didn't get angry with his friends. He never had and had hoped to withhold the destructive effects of his full and intense rage, deny it from ever surfacing around those he cared for. But he hadn't been able to control himself. They'd had Harry in their presence, they had _talked_ to him and hadn't even the niggling consideration to inform Cedric of it immediately. To suggest he make all haste to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes so that he could _see him._

Of course not. _Hermione_ had thought he had something more important to do. What, work? Cedric's entire world, his career, his life, revolved around finding the person who had saved him years ago. How could anything be more important that meeting his once-saviour when Harry had finally been found?

 _No, not Harry. Salomé_. _It's Salomé now._

In a corner of his mind, Cedric knew he was being irrational. That Hermione was only thinking of his best interests… or perhaps not thinking of him at all in the excitement of finding her long lost friend. As it should be. They had finally – _finally_ , after so long searching – found Harry.

And yet, no matter how persistent that voice, Cedric couldn't overcome the rage that welled within him every time he glanced at Hermione, at Ron or Ginny, across the long table in the basement kitchen of Grimmauld Place. He could have met Salomé, really met her, could have talked to her, could have heard himself exactly what had happened. A second hand retelling… it had not been enough. He needed to _see_ her.

Cedric knew that was irrational too. He hadn't tumbled so far into his obsession, into insanity even, that he couldn't comprehend that his fixation upon Harry was extreme. He hardly knew of the teenage boy save for what Harry's friends had told him of him, and had barely talked to him a handful of times. Those times had only arisen for being thrust together by the hands of fate, trapped in a corrupt Triwizard Tournament.

But Cedric had always been a passionate person. Whether in protectiveness of his friends, dedication to his studies, or the faithfulness towards the few girlfriends he'd had in his youth, when Cedric decided he was committed he threw himself into his commitment wholeheartedly. Harry had simply been another commitment, one that he had embraced to the exclusion of all else.

And yes, maybe it was wrong. Maybe Cedric should not hold such loyalty for a boy he hardly knew, a loyalty that had shifted to an unknown girl the moment he learned that Harry had become Salomé. Yet even with the joint insistence that Harry was changed more than just physically, that Salomé herself was an entirely different person… Cedric couldn't suspend his dedication. He owed his life to the girl who had been Harry Potter. Nothing could change that.

Apparently, not everyone was so forgiving of the possibility.

"Salomé Belaire is one of Riddle's _Apprentices_ ," Moody growled, his pockmarked face twisting in anger. He was the most vocal, the most visibly distrustful of the Order. He always had been and had only grown more so when the identity of one Bartemius Crouch Jr. had been uncovered and the real Moody unearthed. "I don't care if she was Potter once upon a time; I've heard the tales. The girl is ruthless and instils nearly as much fear in those around her as the Dark Lord himself."

"But if she really is Harry," Molly Weasley's began, her voice wavering as she hunched her shoulders in her seat and curled into her husband. Both looked as though they were weighed down by a heavy burden, a weight that seemed to have settled upon the shoulders of everyone that had known Harry intimately from before his disappearance.

"That doesn't change the fact that it has been four years, Molly," Shacklebolt replied from across the table, his voice soothing yet firm. "Time can change people, often dramatically. And if the story that Belaire has told Hermione, Ron and Ginny is true then it would be idealistic to assume that Harry hasn't been changed by his trials. By _her_ trials."

There was a communal cringe from everyone in the room, even those who adamantly insisted that Salomé couldn't be trusted. Cedric felt his jaw begin to ache for its tightness, but he didn't struggle to loosen it. It was the only thing that stilled his voice from bellowing in anger. He simply burned at the mere thought of what Hermione had told him, had told the Order. Of what had befallen Harry and how he had become Salomé. He had wanted to kill the Dark Lord for years, but now… now he wanted to _destroy_ him.

"Kingsley's right," Amos spoke up from his side. Cedric stiffened in his seat but didn't turn to regard his father. If there was a clear division between the 'trust Salomé' and the 'never risk the unknown' factions of the gathering, then while Cedric sat resolutely on one side his father crouched just as stoically on the other. "All evidence points to the fact that Belaire is very definitely a Dark witch. She has been _involved_ ," Amos widened his eyes pointedly, as though the insinuation spoke for itself. Perhaps to him it did. "There is no overlooking such involvement."

"How dare you."

The voice was more of a growl than words. Cedric turned with every other head in the room towards Sirius at the other end of the table, leaning forward heavily as though burdened by the same weight that sagged the shoulders of the Weasleys. Unlike the Weasleys, however, there was determination in Sirius' face. A light that had been absent for years the since Harry had disappeared, that Cedric had rarely if ever seen. He felt a stirring of approval well within him; if there was anyone in the room as passionate about supporting Harry as Cedric was, even as Salomé, then it was Sirius.

"How _dare_ you suggest that my godchild is corrupt," he continued so lowly it was more of a rumble. "Even after the story we've heard, after what she's said."

"Words can be warped, Sirius."

Spinning in his seat, Sirius fixed a ferocious glare upon Remus, slumped heavily in his own seat, his voice barely a murmur. Even the fire of his glare didn't shake the weariness from Remus' face. Sirius' anger didn't lessen the slightest for the sight of it. "You can't be serious. You think that Harry would be so far gone as to stray from the side of the light. Remus –"

"Could you blame him if he had?" Remus' eyes were sorrowful, pained, and Sirius flinched when he met his gaze. "I could hope desperately that something of Harry still survives, but –"

"Harry Potter no longer exists, Lupin," Snape sneered. "Put aside your pining." His lip curled, the only expression to his reply. And yet it set a fire to the meeting like a match to dry kindling.

The kitchen in Grimmauld Place was not really large enough to support nearly two dozen people. It was a dark, grimy room of stonewalls and cold floors, but that was an improvement on how it had been previously. Cedric remembered. He'd seen the run-down estate before Molly Weasley had taken to it with a vengeance. But even she could not seem to rid the rickety old building of the taint of neglect.

The stone did nothing to dampen the echoing yells of affront, the murmurs of regretful agreement, the scrape of chairs as protestors launched themselves to their feet. Sirius was loomed over the table towards Snape, hands pressed firmly on hard timber and spitting for the vehemence of his words. Shacklebolt attempted to quell his rage, while Remus rubbed his forehead and attempted to hush his friend as Tonks muttered worriedly at his side. Moody was nodding sagely, his mouth a line as grim as his growled complaints to indicate his agreement, while Emmaline Vance and Elphias Doge nodded and uttered their own agreeing contributions. Dedalus Diggle at least looked regretful when he mumbled his similar stance, something that Sturgis Podmore failed to present entirely.

Far overwhelming those against Salomé, however, were those that stood by her on the basis of her past as Harry Potter. Ron had also risen to his feet, any uneasiness and hesitancy he had demonstrated as to Salomé's 'goodness' when Hermione had told the story dissipated in the face of accusation against her name. He gestured with stabs of his finger at Snape, growling in a puppy-like impersonation of Sirius. Ginny was on her feet too, hissing in anger, and most of the rest of the Weasleys – all of them present – appearing of a like mind; Bill even glared reprovingly at Fleur when she seemed to fall momentarily into a state of ambivalence.

Those of Harry's past friends present seemed in varying degrees of affront at the suggestion. Finnegan grumbled indignantly under his breath and Thomas, though quiet as always, glared daggers at Snape. Longbottom, surprisingly, appeared the most angered out of them all, and seemed to be visibly struggling to maintain his seat as he added his own sharp protests. Only Hermione seemed capable of some composure, but Cedric perceived it to be a near thing to hold.

McGonagall appeared sorrowful, Hagrid apprehensive and bordering on angry. Flitwick, Hestia Jones, Mundungus Fletcher, Aberforth. Cedric's own parents – all appeared in varying degrees of dissatisfaction and each attempted to voice their own thoughts as though they really mattered. As though words were drawn unwittingly from their mouths at Sirius' repeated, _"Bastard! You bastard!"_ that grew only louder with each passing moment.

Cedric didn't open his mouth but it was a struggle. His body had tensed into whipcord tightness as he sat rigidly in his uncomfortable wooden chair. If Sirius hadn't been speaking what played across his own thoughts so articulately, he doubted he would have been able to maintain such muteness.

Sirius and Cedric… they were kindred spirits, at least in this matter. Sirius had been a confusion of heartbreak and excitement upon hearing of Salomé's story, and had barely been able to retain his seat since the meeting had begun. And that was even without the temptation of throttling Snape.

So instead of joining him in his verbally aggressive offence, Cedric shifted his focus elsewhere. Dumbledore was a stoic, silent presence at the head of the table, his hands folded before him and chin tilted forwards slightly, gaze cast downward. He appeared in deep thought, as though the whirlwind of noise around him were merely a summer breeze. Cedric couldn't help but feel a sharp tang of distaste coat his tongue at the sight of him.

Dumbledore was the second reason he was angry. Dumbledore and his secrets of the Horcruxes.

He'd told them, at Hermione's – at _Salomé's_ – behest. Explained to them exactly what it was that Salomé had been so derisive of, of what had apparently laced her tone with disgust towards her past Headmaster. And Cedric had been appalled. It had been the only moment in the long evening that he had surfaced from his rage.

Souls? Fragments of Voldemort's soul? He had, effectively, made himself _immortal_? And the process, the _how_ …

The very idea still sent a ripple of nausea through Cedrics gut, and that was while he maintained his disgruntlement towards Snape, towards Moody, and Shacklebolt, and his parents. Dumbledore too, for the old man, the most powerful and wisest wizard in existence, had apparently deemed it unnecessary to prevail upon the larger group of his colleagues that which ensured the existence of Voldemort even if he were smote down. Some, obviously, had already been informed. Moody, for one. Snape too, oddly enough, but then Dumbledore and Snape had always appeared to have a strange relationship.

Not the rest of them, however. Oh no, apparently it wasn't _necessary_ for them to know.

Finally, Sirius' bellowing appeared to breach the shell that encompassed Dumbledore. As Cedric watched, the old man raised his head and, in a voice that was still quiet yet somehow managed to penetrate the cries ringing throughout the room, simply uttered "Silence".

Just like that, it was. Cedric tried not to be too angered by the fact.

Slowly, those standing sunk back into their seats. Sirius was the last, but eventually even he, grumbling as he did, fell with a loud _clack_ into his rickety wooden chair. There was a lull, of breaths held and wary apprehension, before Dumbledore finally spoke.

"Firstly, let us distinguish one very significant point," the headmaster said, gaze sweeping the room. "Salomé Belaire is certainly Harry Potter."

Cedric had to bite back the urge to snort in derision. Of all the things Dumbledore could have focused upon, that was probably the _least_ important. Not a one in the room disbelieved the claim Hermione and her friends made, nor that Salomé's story, at least in that regard, was false. A glance towards Sirius indicated that, once again, he and Cedric were of a like mind.

When no one sought to comment, Dumbledore continued. "Let us also establish that, whether for the purpose of good or evil, Salomé has willingly involved herself in the schemes of Tom Riddle."

"There's no 'willingly' about it," Sirius growled, and several heads, mostly the Weasley's nodded in agreement.

"She's been an Apprentice of Riddle's for at least three years, Black," Moody shot back, his chair creaking as he leant forward to glare down the table towards Sirius. "You know the drill; three years minimum they study before they're acknowledged as formal Masters in society. She's _been acknowledged_ , had her Coming of Age Ceremony and all. Not a chance in hell Riddle would formalise as much if she wasn't doing it –"

"She could be compelled," Sirius overrode Moody loudly. His voice was angry, but Cedric heard the slight desperation in his tone. "Or blackmailed. There must be a reason for it."

"Perhaps she has been corrupt?" Snape intoned in his monotonous turn-a-phrase.

Naturally, Sirius' attention drew back towards him, hissing and spitting in a rage. "Don't you even think about suggesting as much, _Snivellus_ ," Sirius growled through gritted teeth.

"Suggest what? A potential truth?"

"Harry would _not_ be corrupt!"

Which then naturally led to another round of objections, both for and against Sirius' claim. Cedric tamped down on his rising frustration. _Breathe. Just breathe. You can get out of here soon. Then you can_ do _something…_

Thankfully, Dumbledore was quicker to quell the anger this time. "Enough." His voice, while moderate, was pervasive enough to instantly silence the angry exchanges once more. "For whatever reason, it must be acknowledged that, to a certain degree and for whatever reason, Salomé is acting of her own will and fulfilling the role of an Apprentice perfectly."

"Yeah, by which you mean she's scarin' the living shit out of anyone who looks at her sideways," Fletcher muttered, barely audibly. Loud enough to receive an elbow to the ribs from Finnegan, however, which left his choking for air.

Infuriatingly, Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Perhaps. But all may not be lost."

At his cryptic words, an eerie stillness gripped everyone in the room. With deliberate slowness, Cedric turned his gaze towards Dumbledore. There was a deep, considering thoughtfulness on the man's face, one that boded well for a third explosively cataclysmic bout of arguments.

Remus, calm and practical as always even mentally strained as he was, was the first to speak. "What do you mean, Albus?" He said, then paused, a frown settling on his forehead. "What do you know?"

Moody shifted in his seat. "Are you maybe thinking…?"

"What?" McGonagall, silent in her worry hitherto that day, spoke up uneasily. "Albus, what are you thinking?"

Dumbledore seemed reluctant to voice his thoughts, and it was that very reluctance that made Cedric think that… perhaps…

He wasn't the only one to jump to a similar conclusion. Bill Weasley, the level-headed and logical eldest son, drummed his fingers on the hard table. "You think she's somehow involved with the Horcruxes, don't you?"

At his words, several gasps rose in the room. Molly clamped a hand over her mouth – her now expected response to every mention of the Horcruxes – and almost everyone in the room turned several shades paler.

Dumbledore turned an approving gaze towards Bill, as though he were a student who had unravelled a particularly complex equation. "Yes, I do believe as much is possible."

"Something? What do you mean something?" McGonagall, apparently making up for her earlier silence, shifted her glance between Dumbledore, Bill, Moody and Snape. Her eyes narrowed.

"Let me explain," Dumbledore began.

"Yes, please do," Sirius said, his voice clipped. His eyes practically glowed with anger.

Ignoring the anger in his tone, Dumbledore bowed his head slightly. "We have deduced, in accordance with the magical rites and rituals, and pertaining to the magical power of theories of Arithmancy and Divination, that Riddle has managed to produce seven Horcruxes." There was a round of nodding throughout the room; conclusions on the matter had already been voiced and acknowledged as fact. "However, despite there being at least four remaining, we have as yet been unsuccessful in reclaiming the artefacts in which they are instilled."

"You've told us this already," Sirius grumbled, propping his elbows on the table and dropping his head into his hands. The anger was slowly fading from his voice as Dumbledore took control of the situation, and he seemed more drained than anything else. Even more resigned when there was a smattering of "Shh" and "Be quiet, Black" from whispered voices. Disgruntled as they may be, there was a certain degree of respect that was always afforded to Dumbledore when he spoke. Always _._

"My apologies. I only meant to surmise," Dumbledore said, bowing his head graciously. "What I have not informed you of it that I have my suspicions that, while no Horcruxes have yet been found, we have successfully located the caches in which several had been stored. Namely that which resided at Hogwarts, and that which was secreted into a seaside cave just outside of a little-known town."

Excited and nervous whispers rose throughout the room, even Hermione breaking her muteness to whisper something to Ginny. Cedric sat up further in his seat, his interest sharpening.

"What makes you think there were once Horcruxes at these sites?" Vance spoke up over the hushed flurry of words. "How do you know they were ever there?"

"The feel of black magic," Moody ground out, his face twisted in disgust. "Nothing quite so dark as a Horcrux. It leaves a stain on the very air that surrounds it."

"Then where did they go?" Fred said, perking up and obviously reaching the end of his tether as respectful listener. George continued a moment later with, "Do you think Riddle collected them again?"

Dumbledore shook his head sagely, a motion mirrored by Moody. Even Snape offered a brief motion of dissent. "There is evidence suggesting that it was not Riddle who removed the Horcruxes."

"Then someone…?" McGonagall trailed off, her eyes widening. "You think Harry… Salomé? You think Salomé Belaire is responsible for retrieving the Horcruxes?"

It was a question, but the lack of objection at the suggestion from any of the three Horcrux 'experts' was answer enough. Cedric felt an unaccountable wash of triumph flood through him, and unconsciously exchanged a tight smile with Ron across from him.

"See? Knew Harry would never turn evil," Finnegan announced loudly.

Hagrid sniffed loudly and made a swipe at his watery eyes. "He's tryin' to take down You-Know-Who." Hagrid had never quite been able to voice even Riddle's name.

Grins spread across faces – mostly the Weasley's once more, and relief flooding Molly's – and Sirius raised his head to glare with satisfaction at Snape. A satisfaction that was stamped out a moment later when Dumbledore continued.

"It is a possibility, perhaps." The ex-headmaster's voice was grave. "We have yet to deduce what has truly become of them. The spells conducted upon the caches only revealed that the wards and traps were inactivated and that an unknown presence of exceptional strength removed the Horcruxes from the sites." Dumbledore shook his head, his fingers rising to steeple on the table before him. "We do not know if they have been destroyed."

"Is there a way to find out?" Remus asked, frowning deeply. He'd been unable to hide his own relief at the suggestion that Salomé was not 'all bad', but unlike Sirius who seemed to have resumed his seething, Remus turned his objective attention to the details instead.

"Yeah, we can ask her," Moody replied in Dumbledore's stead. "The only problem is, if she's really on Riddle's side, if we ask as much then it'll let Riddle know we're onto him."

"He doesn't already know?" Shacklebolt asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow. "You are sure?"

"Fairly certain," Snape answered him. No one objected to his words; it was an unspoken fact that Snape appeared on both sides of the playing court. Cedric never had been certain which side he truly belonged to. He wasn't sure he knew even now. "Riddle would undoubtedly have made some slip if he was aware that his most prized possessions were at risk."

"Then without asking her, how will we know?" Shacklebolt said.

"That is the very issue I wish to draw everyone's attention to," Dumbledore finally spoke up. All eyes fell upon him once more. "We have approached a rather delicate situation, one that requires finesse and dexterity to manoeuvre around without loss of limb. I believe that our only course of action is to approach and gain the trust of Salomé Belaire."

"Definitely," Moody agreed, and there were murmurs of assent from every Auror in the room. The rest were hesitant in their agreement.

"And just how, exactly, do you propose to be doing that," Fletcher chimed in, one eye squinting as though he was physically struggling with the mind-boggling concept of approaching an Apprentice. "She'd hex yer balls off before you got a word in." He was silenced once more by another elbow from Finnegan; Cedric abruptly decided that he quite liked the younger man.

"It will be difficult, but perhaps there is a way," Dumbledore murmured. "In light of our current members and their relationship to Harry, I think there is a possible approach that has adequately presented itself."

"You want one of us to talk to her," Ginny said slowly, speaking up from her muteness in a quietly considering tone.

"Talk might be one way of approaching it, yes," Moody replied, apparently thinking along parallel lines to Dumbledore enough to answer for him. "Forcing her to listen might be a better way of phrasing it."

"With what, holding her past friends over her head?" Remus said with another frown. He sounded faintly concerned at the prospect.

Moody waved a hand. "Nothing so brash, Lupin. You make us sound like villains." Cedric did notice, however, that Dumbledore only lowered his chin thoughtfully.

Snape, however, was not quite so delicate. "If we use any means at our disposal – any – I think that there is a way that we can satisfactorily force Belaire's hand."

"Unwillingly?" McGonagall asked, sounding just as concerned as Remus.

"If we must,"

"What, so now _you're_ going to blackmail her," Ron said. His previous indignation flared once more.

It was not Snape who answered, however, but Dumbledore. "We must do what we must. This is a war, Mr Weasley, and at present it is not being won. Our steadfast morals may require temporary displacement for the good of the many."

"You sound like you're prepared to go to the extreme," Bill intoned, his words faintly vicious. At his side, his brother Charlie nodded his agreement. "How far are you prepared to go, exactly, to win this war?"

"As far as we must," Moody said angrily.

"And how far is that?" Charlie continued for his brother. "Underhanded methods? _Would_ you blackmail this Salomé? Would you hold her past friends over her heads?"

"If we _must_."

"And if she doesn't respond to such encouragement," Hermione said quietly, her voice wavering as Moody's eyes, both of them, swung towards her. "I don't know if she'll be receptive, even to…" She trailed off, sharing nervous glances with her friends.

Moody huffed in exasperation. "Then we go as far as we must."

Cedric didn't mean to. He truly didn't. He'd coached himself into silence and rigidity the entire meeting so as not to cause a scene. But at Moody's words, primal fury overtook him and Cedric abruptly found himself on his feet. "How far are you suggesting, Moody?"

Every eye in the room shifted towards him, but Cedric barely noticed. He shook of frantic whispers of "Ced" from his father, the tugging fingers of his mother urging him to sit back down. He had eyes only for Moody. "You sound awfully relaxed about this. Like though you've though about this long and hard. How far do you intend to go?"

By the end of his demands, Cedric no longer looked at Moody but instead had fastened his gaze upon Dumbledore. Dumbledore didn't reply, merely met Cedric's gaze mildly. Fighting to unclench his jaw, Cedric pressed the old man. "Just how far will you go _?_ Would you hurt her if she resisted you?"

Slowly, Dumbledore shook his head. "It would never be our intention to hurt another, be they a Dark magic user or an innocent."

 _Innocent? So one can't be Dark without the loss of innocence?_ It might have been obvious to just about everyone else in the room, but to Cedric it breathed of wrongness. "It might not be your intention, but do you deny you'd resort to such tactics if it was for your 'greater good'."

The complete lack of reply was answer enough. Down the other end of the table Sirius growl was so lupine that it would not have been surprising if he'd assumed his Animagus form. Cedric ignored everyone except Dumbledore. "You would. You really would." He barked a humourless laugh that caused more than one person to flinch. "If you even _think_ about hurting her –"

"You're blinded by your irrational loyalty, Diggory. Grow a brain," Moody interjected, heaving himself to his feet. Even shorter than Cedric as he was, he was stout and impressive, intimidating to be on the wrong side of.

Not that Cedric cared. "And you're blinded by your idealistic goal without considering the consequences. You'd sacrifice everything to attain it, even if it mean becoming what you're trying so hard to vanquish."

"Diggory, that is _not_ –"

"No. _No_." Shifting his attention back to Dumbledore, hCedrice had to blink to clear the growing darkness from his eyes. Dumbledore peered back at him expressionlessly. "If you even think, if you even consider hurting Salomé Belaire, _any_ of you," Cedric spared significant attention for Moody and Snape, "then I swear to Merlin…"

He didn't finish his sentence. He didn't feel that he needed to; the threat evidently spoke for itself from the sharply audible inhalations throughout the room. Regarding each member of the Order, each of his friends even, Cedric shrugged off his mother's persistent tugs as she urged him to calm down, thrust his chair backwards and strode from the room. Not a word followed his departure, not a break in the silence even as he exited straight up the narrow stairs, through the dim hallway and passed through the front door. The house seemed to shake for the force he slammed the door.

It was only when he reached the dilapidated footpath that Cedric paused to take a deep, shuddering breath. He raised his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, easing the tightness that was sending a throb through his eyes. His anger roiled strongly and, no matter that he was finally _out_ of the claustrophobic atmosphere, it still pulsed strongly. Another deep breath, released in a heavy sigh, and he turned slowly to head down the hushed suburban street of Grimmauld Place.

Only to feel a hand clap on his shoulder before he'd taken a single step. With a jerk, Cedric spun around, his hand unconsciously dropping to his wand in his pocket. Only to pause as his spinning gaze met Sirius' resolute expression, the man slightly shorter than he yet unnoticeably so with the simple weight of his presence. His hair was a shaggy mess and there was a three-day scruff on his chin, but a fierce fire lit his eyes.

"Sirius," Cedric said by way of acknowledgement.

Sirius only nodded in reply. Without ceremony, he declared, "I'm with you."

Cedric stared at the Sirius, at Harry's godfather, one of the few drivers for the war effort against Riddle. That effort had taken such a drastic shift in recent years from the active aggression of spontaneous duels to the complex spider web of political deception and domination. Sirius had been a bloodhound restrained from seeking the scent, tearing at the bit to simply _do_ something. He was a primary supporter of ending Riddle's attempts to eradicate the uneasy balance that the Wizarding world teetered upon.

Most people assumed it was because of his dedication to Harry, to Harry's family and the brother in all but blood he'd lost so long ago. A vengeance of sorts, and they wouldn't be wrong in their assumption. But Cedric knew that, just like himself, the drive ran far deeper than such short-term goals. He wanted Harry back desperately, possibly – though Cedric was hesitant to suspect it of being to such a degree – just as much if not more than Cedric did. And he would take any scrap, any whisper or lingering remains, that he could get his hands on.

Because they truly were kindred spirits.

So Cedric didn't immediately turn away, shrugging off Sirius' determination. "How committed are you exactly."

Sirius chuckled humourlessly. He shook his head slowly and gave Cedric a hooded glance. "I'm about as committed as they come."

Cedric nodded, expecting as much. Of course Sirius would put Harry first – put _Salomé_ first – because that was what Cedric would do. He had to ask, though. "And the Horcruxes?"

"What about them?"

"Where do you stand?"

Shrugging, Sirius adopted an expression of false nonchalance. "Sounds pretty legitimate to me."

"And?"

"And nothing. Harry… Salomé is my top priority." Another shrug, more successfully nonchalant this time. "If the Horcruxes happen to appear, and if Salomé is fighting to destroy them, then of course I'm on board. I still want to crush Riddle." The words ' _even more so now'_ went unspoken, but Cedric heard them anyway.

A half-smile rose unconsciously onto Cedric's lips. He knew how Sirius would reply, but he had to put it out there anyway. "And if she really is the enemy?"

Sirius' eyes narrowed. "She isn't."

Cedric's half-smile widened to fullness. "Then I'd say we've got ourselves partners in this endeavour."

"I'd agree with that deduction," Sirius nodded. "Partners to do whatever the bloody hell we can to get my god… _daughter_ out of the clutches of that evil bastard." To his credit, Sirius only tripped slightly on the transition between titles.

Cedric nodded firmly. As though sealing an agreement, he Sirius' hand in a tight shake. It was a promise, and Cedric would be damned if he wouldn't keep it.

* * *

Salomé Belaire required the services of the Auror Department only three times over the following month, and none of them expressly for herself. Each time, Cedric managed barely more than a glimpse of the young woman, distant at Riddle's right hand, before she was spirited away amidst a sea of lords, ladies and political allies.

It was infuriating.

Cedric didn't complain, however. He didn't grouse and snap his fury at his colleagues, even if he was admittedly close-mouthed of late. He requested appointment on any duty that involved the commonly acknowledged but never referred to as 'Dark Contingents' in the hopes that Salomé would be amongst them. She rarely was, but in those brief instances Cedric could hardly tear his eyes from her.

It was not because she was beautiful, though upon studying her Cedric understood for himself the truth of Ginny's words spoken what seemed so long ago. It was not because she was perched upon Riddle's arm like a dainty show bird to be admired by those around her and yet never touched. It was not even because of the respect, and more than that, the fear, that swum in the eyes of her onlookers, a credit to the power the she held.

No, Cedric couldn't look away because, after searching for four years, he had finally found his Saviour. He'd finally found the person to whom he owed his life, his loyalty that had grown so pronounced, manifesting with a will of its own. In a corner of his mind he registered the feeling for what it was: plain, fixated obsession. It was underscored by torrents of gratitude, of course, but the obsession was genuine. It couldn't be misinterpreted, not even by Cedric himself.

He wasn't so blind, nor so foolish, as to assume any differently. Cedric had long been obsessed with Harry Potter and now he was obsessed with Salomé Belaire. It was as simple and complex as that.

Ron did his best to ensure he was similarly assigned to the Dark Contingent duties, but as an Auror of lower rank than Cedric himself he had less choice in the matter of his allocation. At every possible opportunity, both on the job and in the manic halls of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ron attempted to capture Cedric's attention, to draw him into conversation with whispered requests and hissed demands.

Cedric was having none of it. He hadn't spoken more than two words to any of his friends in weeks. Though he knew it to be almost childish, to be unfair even, he couldn't help himself; his anger had simmered to a cold heat, chilling and hard and unforgiving. And yes, Cedric could understand that they had not excluded him from their meeting with Salomé intentionally, would have likely requested his immediate appearance at the Weasley twin's home had they not considered the welfare of his career, but it still infuriated him. The very _reason_ for his career was to find Harry. Salomé.

Not to mention that, more often than not, Ron would approach him in a manner that was entirely enraging, leading with words that reheated Cedric's anger to fiery sparks.

"Dumbledore said to tell you –"

"I know you're thinking about Harry, mate, but Salomé's _different_ – "

"Ced, you can't just accept her words –"

Each instance, Cedric would narrow his eyes to choke Ron's attempt at conversation to a stuttering halt. He would pin him with his anger for a moment until Ron paled and hunched his shoulders, kicking his feet uncomfortably, before turning on his heel and departing.

Ginny was only slightly better, though Cedric still avoided her – and quite easily at that – and Hermione, though more of a mediator than the Weasley siblings, was perhaps the most infuriating of all. She'd sent him owls and, when those failed, Patronus messages in an attempt to organise a meeting, but Cedrics replies – because he had to reply; it was the courteous thing to do – were always short, emotionless, and in dissent. He had agreed to talk to her face-to-face only once since the Order meeting at Grimmauld Place. It hadn't gone well. He'd had to Apparate from the little Wizarding café in Diagon Alley not five minutes into their conversation to keep from hexing her.

"Cedric, I know how you're feeling. I'm feeling the same way. I want to believe that Salomé is a good person, even if any darkness of character would be entirely understandable given what's happened to her. But you didn't talk to her –"

"And whose fault was that?" Cedric cut across Hermione's slow, mellow words, his own flatly monotonous. It was unfair, he knew, he did, but he couldn't seemed able to help himself. "Whose fault was it, Hermione, that I didn't get the opportunity to discern her 'goodness' for myself?"

Hermione's lips thinned, her eyes tightening and lines forming on her brow. "Cedric, I told you I was sorry. I'm not going to keep apologising. And don't try and change the subject. I'm just saying that you need to be careful, consider that Salomé isn't Harry, and that we really don't know all that much about –"

"You don't trust her?" It was a struggle for Cedric to even keep his voice in hard flatness.

Hermione's brow creased further. "I… Cedric, I want to believe in Harry. You know I do. But the reality is that Salomé isn't him, even if she was in the past. For all we know, she could very well be in allegiance with Riddle –"

And Cedric had Apparated. Hermione hadn't attempted to contact him after that, not even by owl. Cedric didn't know if she was angry with him or ashamed of her own words, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Instead, he spent hours of overtime at the ministry, working when he could to finish tasks assigned to him to provide himself with free time, and researching when such was obtained. He scoured the archives for everything he could about Riddle, anything that he hadn't already researched, and extended his search towards the Apprentices. Towards Salomé.

What he found was discouragingly sparse.

The Apprentices were Riddle's coveted assets. What little the ministry archives had on them consisted of their names, their ages, their family's status, and the brief displays of magical competency that had been publically shared. Their files were some of the least impressive resources the Aurors had on hand, and Salomé's, being the newest, was perhaps the slimmest of them all.

She was reportedly of the Noble House of Belaire, a French-British family that had migrated to London some two hundred years ago. The file claimed she was an only child of Lady Valentine Belaire and Valentine only, father unknown. Valentine was a beautiful, regal woman of old blood who rarely stepped into society for the reason most largely attribute to her distaste of humanity as a whole. That she had a daughter she had supposedly kept hidden for years was surprising to many; that said daughter had shown exceptional talent and beauty, however, had caught the magical and lustful eye of Riddle himself, was not.

Salomé made little by way of public appearances. She kept to herself, practiced her magic behind closed doors and rarely stooped to intimidating those around her with feats of magical prowess. She didn't need to; Cedric had witnessed her hooded gaze, the faint uptilt of her lips with just the slightest edge of predatory amusement. It was terrifying. She didn't need magic to induce compliance from those around her. In fact, the only real display of power Salomé had reportedly publicly exhibited had been at her Coming of Age ceremony. Not that such scarcity induced suspicions of magical stunting; far from it, the general consensus was that Salomé was of the greatest talents amongst Riddle's elite squad, an opinion driven largely by foreboding speculation.

Other than that, her public appearances consisted solely of those in which she accompanied Riddle. Upon his arm like a trophy wife, she rarely spoke shortly to anyone besides her 'master' if she cared to speak at all. She would surface at political conferences dressed up to the dime, at regal balls and congregations, at Ministry dos to smile with quiet intelligence at Riddle's words as he made puppets of the scurrying witches and wizards around him with nauseating ease.

Cedric read all of it, and with each reading, he found his distaste for Riddle growing. That he so obviously thought of Salomé as his little doll, tugging her along to his appointments and parties, irked him to no end. Harry had been an intelligent person, as Hermione and Ron had claimed, even if such intelligence hadn't been of a particularly studious kind. It grated upon him to see Salomé subjected to the role of little more than a mindless canary.

Yet even so, even with the evidence and the annotations of the recorders of the observations, Cedric couldn't bring himself to entirely believe the speculations. Hermione's words, her conveyance of those Salomé had spoken, rung through his head almost as though Cedric had heard them himself.

_"_ _I do not serve the Lord of the Dark… I serve myself, and my own judgements."_

Her own judgements. Her own _will._ Salomé had also claimed that she didn't serve the Light, and yet… Cedric wasn't entirely certain how he felt about the 'Light' at present. After Moody's words and his insinuation. After Dumbledore's lack of rebuttal. Cedric had always proudly aligned himself with the side of the Light because they were _right_ and _just_. He didn't want to believe that the Order would stoop so low as to torture someone, to force them into submission or at least into compliance. He didn't _want_ to, but that was certainly what it had sounded like.

On the fourth instance Cedric saw Salomé, it was amidst a mass of hundreds and nearly a month after the Order meeting. It was a momentous day because the Minister of Magic, the newly appointed voice of the British Wizarding community, was to give his acceptance speech to a sea of avid listeners. Those listeners turned their attention and gazes towards the stage set up before the double doors of the Ministry of Magic, the podium tall and bare and centrally aligned as it awaited its speaker's departure from the ranks of lords, ladies and politicians that waited, seated or standing, behind and along the back of the stage.

Before his sprawling audience, the new Minister stepped away from his colleagues on the stage and slid onto the step behind the podium. Atticus Pickling his name was. A man past the prime of his life yet still strong. As tall and thin as a beanpole, his greying hair was just beginning to thin and the wrinkles to stand out upon his face. His determined, hard face that, while resolute, also held elements of a deep-natured kindness. Because Pickling was a _good_ person. More than that, he did not actively hate Muggles. In fact, he didn't appear to hate them at all; if anything he was largely neutral on the subject. Which was all the more surprising because Cedric knew, as every other witch and wizard in Britain knew, that it was Riddle's choice, not the culminated decision of the Lower Ministers, that had him appointed.

How very peculiar.

Cedric was stepping in slow, measured paces around the western bulk of the masses, pausing when he reached the end of his route and turning back again to pace in the other direction. That was his role for the day: to ensure that no havoc was wreaked at the Minister's speech and that it passed with as little excitement as possible. He nodded his head briefly at his colleague Gaeus when they met eyes, before turning his attention towards the crowds once more. They were loud, raucous even, as was want to happen around large numbers of individuals, but that wasn't what Cedric was looking for. Not what he _saw._ His eyes instead raked the ranks for those few who scowled at the politicians, how held tense hands thrust into pockets to grip wands and stood with ready rigidity as though prepared to spring into action at the slightest moment.

Or at least that was whom he was supposed to be watching.

In reality, Cedric found his eyes drifting more often than not towards the stage. Towards the politicians, the lords and ladies that were rapidly falling into their assigned seats. Or, more correctly, to one lady in particular. Try as he might, Cedric couldn't draw his attention from Salomé for long; she sat alongside Riddle, as she always did, immaculately groomed in black dress robes of figure-hugging material and hair coiled into an elaborate up-do of curls and loose tendrils. In terms of garb, she did not look to be particularly outstanding amongst the other ladies except perhaps for her youth though Cedric would always find his eyes drawn to her. It was almost magical.

It took a significant amount of effort for Cedric to remind himself to turn his attention to scanning the crowds every so often as was his duty. Though he wanted nothing more than to spend the entire day simply watching Salomé, ensuring that, if nothing else, she was safe, he couldn't shirk his responsibilities. It would take an explosive catalyst to urge him to do such.

Pickling, after spending several moments discussing something or other with his accompaniment over his shoulder in inaudible tones, finally decided that he'd required his audience to wait long enough. He placed both hands upon either side of the podium and lifted his head in such a way that, as one, the crowds hushed to near silence. When he spoke, his voice was clear and strong.

"It is with the greatest of pride, humility and gratitude that I accept this role as Minister for Magic in the great country of Britain."

A storm of cheers erupted as though on request, and Pickling gave a tame smile that was more than genuine enough. Cedric noticed that a similar smile touched Salomé's face, though even more muted, and that such satisfaction was absent on many of those seated on either side of her. Not Riddle, though; the man looked aloofly invested in the proceedings, as he always did. No, not from Riddle or Salomé, but there were many disgruntled curls of lips and narrowed eyes to make up for the fact.

Pickling waited until the cries of the crowd died. "I am honoured, truly honoured, that I have been chosen to lead the magical peoples of this country, through future greatness and hardships. For though I would hesitate to wish the latter upon us, the former is a surety. For we, as a people and a country, are truly great."

Another upwelling of cheers sounded. Cedric took the opportunity to scan the crowds for outliers, for those that appeared less enthusiastic. Though Pickling was generally a well-liked candidate for the position and largely elicited little by way of disgruntlement from any but his surrounding politicians – and only then for his pervasive fairness and justice – there were always exceptions. Cedric could spot several already, even just from his brief glimpses; the young man with the busboy's hat, the two women with bowed heads and scowls turning their plain faces ugly, the older man with his shoulders hunched and hands grasped into fists where they were just visible from the cuffs of his dappled trench coat.

He would have to keep an eye on them.

The speech continued when the cheers of the crowd died. Cedric heard but did not actively listen any further; it was fairly mediocre as far as acceptance speeches went, satisfying to the ear but not invigorating in the way that the more passionate politicians preached their opinions. Cedric actually quite liked that about Pickling, though he was aware that it was because of such mildness of character that he had likely not been elected so far. Still, the crowds seemed to like it well enough, though that likely had more to do with the celebratory atmosphere than anything else.

It was because of his only half-attentiveness that Cedric saw it the moment it happened. As the speech drew to its conclusion, drifting into only a brief climax that still left the audience cheering excitedly, Cedric noticed the young woman with a mop of shaggy hair start towards the stage. He'd seen her before, and she, like the busboy and the two women, had shown obvious dislike for the proceedings. Without thought he strode into action, heading towards the stage.

There was a final cheer as Pickling concluded with the words, "I will strive to make good my resolutions and move towards a better Wizarding Britain," and it happened. Cedric was not quite close enough to the stage to throw up a hasty shield, let alone launch himself into the line of fire, but thankfully he wasn't necessary.

The shaggy-haired woman pushed with a complete absence of subtlety through the front lines of the crowd. Aurors were upon her in an instant, and yet she still managed to launch a hex at the new Minister. Thankfully, the Aurors were on point that day, for a transparent shield rippled into opaqueness as blue-green sparks sprung towards Pickling. There was a fireworks burst of colour, a loud crash of clanging cymbals, and the sparks rebounded in a harmless shimmer.

Shrieks, naturally, erupted from the audience. Order, so well maintained only moments before, shattered in an instant. As one, everything happened at once.

The crowd undulated into a roiling mass of confusion.

Aurors descended upon the shaggy woman and seemed to throw themselves upon her.

Pickling's bodyguards rushed forwards and erected layers of shields around him more numerous than those upon an onion.

And blanketing it all, the air of crazed confusion, affront, and just a little fear rose sky high.

Cedric was but a handful of paces from the stage. He should have been at his post, but there was little he could do about that fact now. He wasn't the only one to have abandoned his station; Aurors were still varying between restrained trots and lengthy strides as they hastened towards the stage. It was a confusion of urging the public away from the stage, offering shouted words of reassurance, and edging further towards that which was the target of the supposed attack.

An attack which, Cedric realised, was not quite over.

The shaggy woman wasn't the only one to actively declare her vexation. An elderly man with a balding crown pushed through the tangled and retreating front line of the audience and raised his wand towards the stage. "Puppet! Lies! You are not worthy to be Minister!"

He was quickly suppressed by a trio of Aurors, but an instant later another man – the one with the busboy hat – tripped through the barricade of Aurors with his own wand brandished. "You say you speak for the good of Wizarding Britain! We all know you're nothing but a puppet on Riddle's strings."

He was quickly suppressed too, but his words rung loud and clear, even through the cries and broken calls of the crowd.

 _Idiot_ , Cedric shook his head, rolling his eyes. _Stating the obvious. Everyone knows Riddle chose him. Though we don't exactly know why Pickling specifically,_ everybody _knows that._ The man was signing his death warrant by so openly stating his thoughts, his suspicions that every single witch and wizard in Britain already knew as fact.

What a fool.

He wasn't the only fool, however. There were more of them, more protesters pushing at the barricade of Aurors, jabbing their wands towards Pickling and Riddle in turn who gazed back at them with weary sadness and disdain respectively. They fired spells, but each were deflected by the shields being erected more and more thickly around the sturdy wooden stage.

Until, of course, one wasn't.

Cedric didn't know how he saw it coming. Call it a sixth sense of sorts, or perhaps just sheer dumb luck, but from the corner of his eye he saw the little blonde girl creep up to the opposite side of the stage. In contrast to the violent confusion behind him, the girl who couldn't have been more than seventeen seemed like a stalking cat amongst a flurry of clucking pigeons. She slunk up to the stage with predatory intent.

Cedric didn't think. He simply acted. The girl was undoubtedly aiming for Riddle; there was no question about it given the direction of her gaze. There was the same look, the same affront in her eyes as there was in those of the other protesters being rapidly quelled beneath the weight of the Aurors. Yet all Cedric could think was that, Riddle though she may be aiming for, Salomé was still on that stage, standing right beside him with hands folded before her and back straight, a picture of calm amidst the bustling lords and ladies that stumbled around her.

She could defend herself. She could, Cedric knew. But he wouldn't take the chance that she didn't respond in time.

Cedric was launching himself through the milling Aurors in leaping bounds in an instant. With a springing jump onto the stage, he landed in a crouch and drew his wand from its holster on his arm, hefting it aloft. Not too soon either, for an instant later, in a flash of that same blue-green light as the first protester, the girl launched her own hex.

It shot straight towards Riddle, as was to be expected. Shot, and crashed into the shimmering shield that Cedric erected just in time. There was a cry of the lords and ladies as magical sparks cascaded down the convex dome that encapsulated Riddle and Salomé both, and the stumbles became falls as they sought to free themselves from the line of fire.

The girl whipped her head towards Cedric with a snarl. That snarl lasted only a split second for a moment later a troop of Aurors were upon her too, pinning her to the ground, bereaving her of her wand and magically binding her wrists. Her round face disappeared beneath red Auror robes.

Lowering his wand, Cedric slowly rose from his crouch. His hands unconsciously fell to straightening his own robes before he turned his attention towards those he'd protected. He wasn't the only one; the Aurors upon the stage that weren't involved in detaining the girl – Cedric could see Ron was amongst them, as were Cedric's colleagues Harding and Idovich – similarly turned towards Salomé and Riddle. Or at least those that weren't looking at Cedric with a mixture of approval, exasperation and regret. Cedric knew without asking that at least some of the Aurors would not have lost any sleep if the attacking girl had successfully struck Riddle with her hex. Though evidence may be too insubstantial for conviction, and could be brushed aside easily enough even if it did exist, there was not a single doubt in any Aurors mind that Riddle had been, and remained to that day, Lord Voldemort.

Cedric ignored his colleagues, however. His attention was focused by those he'd protected, those who had turned their own attention towards him with a mixture of curiosity and speculation. Had Cedric any inclination to turn away from them, it would have been quelled by the intensity of their mutual stares.

It wasn't unexpected that, with barely a pause, Riddle strode towards him. The man was a handsome figure to behold, tall and broad though not as much as Cedric himself. He had a patrician profile, dark, curling hair and a permanent quirk to his face that declared very bluntly that he was the better man than _everyone_ and if his opponent did not realise it then they were a hopeless fool. He was, truth be told, the perfect counterpart for Salomé with her dainty grace and cool presentation.

Riddle stopped not three paces from Cedric, Salomé pausing a step behind him. While Riddle's gaze was intense, it was Salomé that Cedric was more aware of, noticing the slight, regarding tilt to her head, the faint curiosity in her eyes. It felt… strangely intoxicating to be the object of her gaze for the first time. To be noticed by her. It took a physical effort for Cedric to force himself to focus back upon Riddle when he spoke.

"You. It was your shield, was it not?" Riddle's voice was cool and faintly sibilant, fluid like water trickling over river-smoothed pebbles. It sent an unexpected shiver down Cedric's spine.

Cedric fought to keep himself standing tall and firm. It helped just a little to know that Salomé was watching him. For whatever reason, he didn't want to appear weak before her. "Yes, my lord. It was me."

Riddle cocked his head in a faintly inquisitive mimic of Salomé's. The curl of his lips was something else entirely, however. "Is that so? How very intriguing…" With a slow, smooth turn of his head, Riddle cast his gaze upon Salomé. She, unfortunately, shifted her attention from Cedric towards him and arched a thin eyebrow in question. "Do you not think so, my dear? This Auror, he protected us himself."

Salomé tilted her head forwards in a slight bow of agreement. "Intriguing indeed," she murmured, and just for a moment Cedric was caught in the very sound of her voice. The low syllables, almost a hum, and thrumming on the verge of musical.

Yes, Cedric would definitely admit he was more than a little obsessed. Even subject to Riddle's intimidating aura, Cedric found he was not entirely shaken simply because Salomé was there. Because he couldn't possibly afford Riddle his entire attention.

Riddle turned back towards him and Cedric focused on him in turn. "Curious that you should so readily jump to our assistance."

"It is my duty, my lord," Cedric replied mechanically. That at least was the truth. As an Auror, and an Auror on active duty at such an event, it was his responsibility to ensure the welfare of all involved, whether they were suspected criminals or not. Unfortunately, in many instances.

Riddle's smile widened slightly further. It was unnerving to behold, so much that Cedric felt himself actually affected by it this time. He knew he wasn't the only one; his colleagues standing audience to the exchange had taken a visible step backwards, retreating from the proximity of the intimidating man. "Duty, is it?" Riddle shook his head slowly. "No, I believe it is more than that."

It happened without pre-emption. Unexpectedly and with a wave of horrifying intrusiveness, Cedric felt himself fall beneath the forcefulness of a mental assault. It was only years of practice against masterful Legilimancy that protected even a scant few of Cedric's most precious thoughts, those he kept forever hidden in a locked chest at the back of his mind.

A flurry of pain-reddened images flashed through Cedric's mind as he felt Riddle – the bloody _Dark Lord_ – flicking through his memories like a child playing amongst autumn leaves yet with even less delicacy and consideration. Cedric didn't know what he was looking for, didn't know what he sought in the depths of his mind, and could only be grateful that his most heartfelt feelings, his memories pertaining to Harry and the Order, were similarly locked in his hidden treasure chest.

It seemed to take an impossibly long time – yet most likely spanned only seconds – that Cedric was subjected to Riddle's attack. When awareness settled upon him once more, it was to find himself propped up, barely retaining his feet, by a number of supporting hands, fellow Aurors voicing their distress and affront in sharp, almost savage tones. Riddle hadn't moved an inch from when Cedric had last seen him and neither had Salomé. They only observed him with their head-tilted curiosity, invested interest extending no further. Except… was Riddle's gaze perhaps slightly more intense?

"Lord Riddle," Harding spoke up, his tone hard-edged and piercing. "Your attack upon the mind of Mr Diggory was uncalled for and unnecessary. It was an invasion of privacy the likes of which the Department of Magical –"

"Quiet," Riddle said, voice clipped and not even sparing Harding a glance. As though he'd had his tongue cut, Harding's objections stuttered to a halt. "Mr Diggory, was it? Yes… I believe I've heard of you…"

The Aurors, and indeed, Cedric too, tensed as one. Detachedly, Cedric felt a twinge of affront at the fact that Riddle – that _Voldemort_ – apparently didn't recognise him when he'd nearly killed him not five years ago. That affront, however, was nearly smothered beneath the sense of foreboding that descended upon him as he struggled not to withdraw beneath Riddle's gaze. He wasn't the only one to struggle with such either, but at least he succeeded in his suppressing his urge to cringe where others failed.

None, not even Harding, got the chance to speak before Riddle continued. Glancing over his shoulder at Salomé, who met his gaze once more with mild interest, he hummed thoughtfully. "I wonder, Mr Diggory, how partial you are to a job offer."

The words were so unexpected, so completely removed from the scene around them, that Cedric didn't comprehend at first just what had been said to him. Around him, the group of Aurors still created a half-circle cocoon, while beyond that the crowds still roiled and the protesters still squawked their indignation and spat curses.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked with as little emotion as he could manage.

Riddle's lips twitched in a smile that was more sickening than inducing like-minded good-humour. "A job, Mr Diggory. Perhaps you would consider?"

Before Cedric or Riddle could say another word, the Aurors around them spluttered into interruption.

"What do you mean?"

"What job? What is this?"

"Why would you -?"

"What gives you the right –?"

"How dare you -!"

They were a jumble of overlapping voices, with Ron's incomprehensible indignation the loudest of them all, exclaiming that "Cedric's already got a job, thank you very much, and he is _not_ taking on another". Riddle ignored them all, simply staring at Cedric with that same inquisitiveness. Cedric didn't know what he was referring to, and could only agre with Ron's sentiment; he did already have a job and there was surely nothing that Riddle could offer him that would induce him to work for him. He hated the man.

Except that, glancing at Salomé and the comprehension and faint amusement that flickered just briefly across her face, Cedric couldn't help but be intrigued.

Riddle ignored the Aurors and their objections, their questions and puffed-up affront. He still fastened Cedric with a penetrating stare, cocking his head in that observing manner that seemed so characteristic of members of the Dark Contingent. The words that issued forth next were spoken with the same sibilant quietness, but they served to stifle the protests of Cedric's colleagues. "I have a somewhat delicate matter that is of great concern to me. You see, my Apprentice," he gestured with an elegant hand towards Salomé, as though their could have been some other Apprentice he was referring to, "is in need of a bodyguard. I believe that you, Mr Diggory, would be rather suited to the role."

Once more Cedric was rendered speechless. The Aurors around him were similarly muted, but he suspected it was for a different reason. Bodyguard? Salomé's bodyguard? _Riddle_ wanted Cedric to serve and protect Salomé? That would be… there couldn't be… how…? Could it?

"Why?"

He'd spoken before he even realised his mouth had opened. Riddle's lips curled in a satisfied almost-sneer, as though Cedric had agreed to his request. "Quite frankly, Mr Diggory, because my Salomé is in need of constant protection. Protection that I cannot personally provide to the degree and consistency of her needs."

Biting back the reflexive urge to snarl at the possessiveness of Riddle's words, Cedric reaffirmed his composure. He took a steadying breath, surprised to find that the cowing he'd felt once more in the face of Riddle's presence was rapidly fading. "Of course. But why me?"

"There is certainly a very good reason for that," Riddle replied with a widening of his smile. His bared teeth looked far too sharp and unnaturally white. "You want to, do you not, Mr Diggory?"

In an instant, the sounds, the voices, the throbbing of noise around Cedric, faded into hollow detachment. He couldn't breath because… because… _Riddle had seen_. He'd seen into Cedric's mind, knew of the depth of Cedrics irrational devotion to Salomé, and if he knew –

_But no, it's not that. He doesn't know. He can't know._

A voice, a muted, rational chirping that constantly settled in the corner of Cedric's mind, even when he was at his most frantic, spoke up once more. As he gave it his attention it continued. _He can't know the depth of your devotion, or that you know Salomé was Harry. Or that you are in league with the Order_. _Surely if he did he wouldn't have asked you_.

In a split second of mental pause, Cedric's mind whizzed through the possibilities and hypotheses and tested them against the evidence presented before him. Yes. Yes, that might be right. Surely Riddle wouldn't have asked him to assume such an role, one that obviously concerned him greatly, if he was at all suspicious of Cedric's allegiances. So, rather than immediately turning tail and flee the potential trap, Cedric replied in turn. "Yes. I do."

Riddle nodded his head in acknowledgement, even as the Aurors around Cedric whipped their heads around to stare at him. Cedric didn't look at any of them directly, but he could see the incredulity bordering on horror slackening jaws and widening eyes. Even Ron who knew his circumstances had abruptly become green with nausea.

"Diggory, what the hell do you think you're doing? " Idovich croaked, his tongue, as always, flapping before he really considered his context. His own horror rung loudly in his words. "Why are you –?"

"For whatever reason, I believe that Mr Diggory would do a fine job in such a role," Riddle interrupted, reaching out one hand behind him to urge Salomé to his side. He draped an arm around her waist almost too tightly as she fell into step beside him, another gesture of possessiveness that caused Cedric to struggle with an abruptly clenched jaw. "I would of course compensate the ministry for his service should he agree." Not once did Riddle look away from Cedric. "So, Mr Diggory? Your decision?"

It was clear that Riddle would not wait. That he refused to wait. And Cedric, even given so little time, even subjected to an assault on the mind as he'd been, could think of no other reply he could possibly give. It was just far too perfect and be damned the consequences and potential for traps. There was no way he could pass up the offer. "I would be delighted to offer my services to Miss Belaire."

The Aurors surrounding Cedric immediately erupted into cries of dispute, bellowing with such ferocity that even the protestors and frantic crowds dampened their vehemence and glanced towards them. Ron looked on the verge of being sick, his pale skin more green than white, while Harding, Idovich, the rest of them, were spitting their fury in varying shades of red and purple. "Diggory, what –?" "What are you thinking?" "Have you gone mad?" were questions frantically tossed at Cedric again and again, but he ignored them all.

He had eyes only for Riddle. Or, more correctly, for Salomé.

Salomé had turned her regard back upon him, a faint curiosity barely visible upon her face. Disregarding the self-satisfied curl of Riddle's lips, the horror radiating from his fellow Aurors, Cedric knew he'd made the right decision.


	8. Dollhouse

With a sigh, Salomé stretched first one leg then the other across the smooth expanse of silken sheets. The luscious warmth of the bed was almost too good to forsake, but duty called and she would never be one to shirk it, despite what many would claim. If Salomé was ever late it was always fashionably so and entirely intentional.

Blinking her eyes open to the dark room, Salomé raised a hand to rub at her eyes before pushing herself lazily up to sitting. The blankets pooled around her waist and she yawned behind her raised fingers as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room.

It was a large suite, that which was allocated to her in the Riddle Manor. More like a small home unto itself, and given the service of the house elves, Salomé could very easily stay behind its closed doors indefinitely. The bedroom was wide and coloured in deep greens and soft greys, the double bed equally wide and plush with a mattress so thick that it took a small jump to clamber in or tumbled from it of a morning or evening. Far too many pillows too, Salomé thought, though admittedly she'd become accustomed to sleeping in a small nest of them. The doors at either end of the room – one leading to the bathroom and another to the sitting room – were both closed, locking in the sleepy atmosphere and excluding all but the faintest trickle of light. The room was as dark as night itself, and Salomé had come to find that she actually rather liked the isolation of the ambiance created. She had rarely slept better in her life than she had done in recent years.

When she actually slept in the rooms provided to her, that was. Which was actually far less frequently than she would have liked.

Unconsciously readjusting her nightgown into appropriate modesty, Salomé swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid to the floor. The thick rug that smothered her feet was soft enough to be a bed itself, and gave the impression of walking on cotton balls. She padded her way to the bathroom and set about with her morning routine.

When she emerged, wrapped in a black bathrobe and hair dripping, Salomé padded once more over the cotton ball rug and into the sitting room beyond. It was only when she beheld the brightness that pervaded the rooms from the wide, square windows that she realised it was mid-morning. Later than she'd thought.

But… well. Fashionably late she would be, then. The resulting lateness of such sleep-ins would never entice Salomé to hasten herself. Besides, it wasn't as though her presence was expressly necessary. Let the other Apprentices work themselves into aggressive pouts before she descended upon them to throw a cat amongst the clucking pigeons. It was always far more fun that way.

The sitting room was larger than Salomé's bedroom, awash in paler greys, the ever-present greens, and outfitted in ornaments and furnishings of silver. The pair of thinly cushioned chairs facing across from one another were built of carved ebony, matching the low coffee table with elements reflected in the shallow fireplace already crackling with fresh flames on dark marble. The theme continued throughout the wall panelling, the wall of shelving – predominantly books, though with its own outfitting of curiosities from spyglasses to matchstick gardens – and continued further into the adjoining study and private brewery hidden through a further succession of doors. It was elegant, refined, and largely impersonal, down to the mellow and quietly contemplative portraits and paintings dotting the walls.

All except for the little house elf, that was, who was already bustling around the coffee table with finicky business.

"Good morning, Nanny."

Glancing up from the breakfast tray she was efficiently unstacking, the little old house elf immediately favoured Salomé with a beaming smile. Her cheeks crinkled with more wrinkles than that of a Shar Pei and her ears quivered just as eagerly.

"Mistress! You is already getting yourself up!" She exclaimed, her eyes folding closed in affection.

Sighing, Salomé slid into one of the cushioned chairs before the array of delicate breakfast bowls. "You say that as though it's a great achievement. Am I so incompetent?"

Nanny shook her head. "Of course not, Mistress. Nanny is just expecting that you would be sleeping in today. Mistress is getting back awful late last night."

"That I was," Salomé murmured, picking up the faintly steaming tea Nanny had already set out for her. She focused upon balancing the delicate china between her fingertips so as not to dwell for too long on exactly where she had been the previous night. Any lingering memories of Riddle, especially those memories, were better left unrecalled. "But it is rather late as it is. I'm surprised that, had you seen fit to assume I needed waking, you hadn't done so sooner."

"Oh, Nanny is thinking about doing as much, Mistress," Nanny bobbed her head, eyes fastened on the crumpets she was buttering with careful precision. "But Mistress is always saying that those Apprentices of the Master 'would be best left to wait upon your favour' and that it would 'do them some good to know who is being in charge'."

Salomé hid a smile behind her teacup. "Yes, I do say that, don't I?"

Nanny was unlike most house elves. Unlike any Salomé had met, at least. Perhaps it had something to do with her age, the experience she'd accumulated over the years, and the maternal instincts she'd developed from such experience, but where most house elves treated their Masters as very much that, Nanny lived up to her name and effectively nanny-ed. She was more like a fond auntie than a servant. Or perhaps Nanny had always been that way. It would explain the nature of her name, at least.

Still, for whatever reason, it only made it that much harder for Salomé to treat her as the servant that she was assigned to be. She only barely managed neutrality amongst company, but in isolation with the little elf she could hardly suppress her own fondness. Nanny had been the closest thing to a real friend Salomé had possessed in years.

Sliding the plate of crumpets across the table towards Salomé, Nanny dusted her hands clear of invisible dust and turned her full attention towards Salomé once more. Her murky brown eyes were alight with the fondness she seemed to reserve only for instances in their solitary company. "It is not really all that late, so Nanny is waiting for a little longer. And Mistress is looking much, much well rested for it." She smiled brightly once more, her ears twitching like fluttering fingers, and Salomé got the impression that had she been able to reach from where she stood, she would have patted her on the cheek just like that doting auntie she resembled.

"Well, I suppose I'll take that as a compliment," Salomé murmured, taking another sip from her tea.

"Yes! Yes, it is being a compliment!" Nanny assured her, before with the abruptness that only house elves could manage she spun upon her heel and trotted towards the bedroom. "Nanny shall be getting your robes ready, Mistress, unless it displeases."

"Of course it doesn't, Nanny. Thank you." Salomé had to raise her voice slightly to ensure it travelled across the length of both rooms, an act that would have been terribly unseemly to any other pureblood Master, but she hardly even considered it.

"Which one is you wanting today?"

"The navy robes, if you please, Nanny. The ones with the silver embroidery at the hem."

Nanny didn't reply but the sounds of her bustling could be heard through the walls, reaching Salomé where she sat picking idly at the crumpets and sipping her tea. It was calm and quiet in the room, the silence broken only by the faint crackling of the muted flames that seeped warmth into the otherwise cool emptiness. Salomé lived for such moments, the brief respite from peering faces and sceptical gazes, the suspicion and disdainful consideration. Those mornings, the bare hour or so before diving back into the world, the silence, was –

"Master Diggory is waiting for Mistress outside the door."

Snapping her head up from where she gazed listlessly at her half-eaten breakfast, Salomé stared at the doorway into the bedroom. "I beg your pardon?"

"Master Diggory. He is being waiting outside Mistress' door for some hours." Nanny's voice was faintly muffled, but it wasn't for such reasons that comprehension was a little slow in coming to Salomé. When it arrived, it was thick with bemusement.

"What is he doing here?"

Nanny, apparently deeming it inappropriate to continue the conversation without visibility, reappeared in the doorway to the bedroom. She seemed almost laughably short framed as such, even more so for the floor-length tea towel wrapped around herself in a toga-like fixture. "Master Diggory is being Mistress' bodyguard, isn't that not so, Mistress?"

There was polite questioning in Nanny's tone, but something about her words sounded almost threatening. It quite likely was, if Salomé knew Nanny as well as she thought she did; Nanny would take it as a personal affront that anyone would presume upon Salomé's presence if they were uninvited, and likely as a challenge to deter such presumption and drive the trespasser from her doorway.

Slowly lowering her teacup to its saucer, Salomé slowly shook her head. "No, it's not… Yes, he is certainly my bodyguard. As of today. I had simply not considered him likely to arrive quite so early."

The hardness in Nanny's expression eased slightly. "Well, Master Diggory is being here since seven of the clock, Mistress."

"Seven o'clock?" Salomé repeated, glancing to the antique grandfather clock of her own across the room. "He's been here for nearly two hours?"

"Yes!" Nanny answered, a wide smile stretching across her face as though, suddenly removed of suspicion, the new bodyguard met her approval for his punctuality. "Master Diggory is getting up very early as he is not knowing what Mistress' schedule is and doesn't want to be being late. Master Diggory is missing his breakfast, so Nanny brought him some, and Master Diggory is –"

"How, exactly, do you know this?" Salomé interrupted, her bemusement welling once more.

"Nanny is talking to the young master, Mistress," Nanny replied with a solemn nod. "Nanny is making sure Master Diggory is not being a suspicious someone."

"Ah, of course." Salomé shook her head once more and rose to her feet, leaving her breakfast to cross the room towards the bedroom. "And he was more than open to discussion, was he?"

"He was, Mistress. A very courteous young man, Master Diggory is, and he is actually answering Nanny's questions when Nanny is asking them." Her eyes became flat for a moment, and it didn't take much stretch of the imagination for Salomé to suspect that she considered the alternative array of bodyguards that been her prior accompaniment. Nanny had grumbled on more than one occasion as to the rudeness of those 'big men', and Salomé suspected that she felt personally slighted by their resistance to acknowledging her as a significant figure in Salomé's life.

"So he meets your approval, then, does he?" Salomé asked, half in jest.

Nanny responded with a considering gaze, followed by a solemn nod of her head. "At the moment, yes, Master Diggory is getting Nanny's approval." And without another word on the subject, she turned and led Salomé back into her room to change. Salomé followed with half a mind, frowning as to the situation that presented itself to her.

Cedric Diggory. He was an odd one. Salomé had heard about him, of course, as just about everyone with ears and the brain to use them must have heard of him, despite the fact that he appeared to very deliberately keep himself from the public eye. He was an up and coming star in the Auror world, intelligent, dedicated, a model employee and neutrally amicable at worst. His was, in truth, the embodiment of what the new generation of Law Enforcers should be, albeit without the biased influence of what the puppet minister and governmental guidelines preferred. A true 'good man' was Diggory and no, not one to promote himself, to actively seek acclamation for his work nor need the overt respect of his fellows. But his was a name Salomé was familiar with nonetheless. Diggory stood out. He was memorable.

And the reason for that wasn't only because of their history together.

Salomé remembered. She remembered the young man she'd known so shortly and so distantly four years ago, the Hufflepuff who was the twinkle of Hogwarts' eye in the Triwizard Tournament. He'd been swept unawares into the clutches of Lord Voldemort, and had managed just barely to escape with the portkey. Salomé remembered feeling relieved for that fact, though it was but a distant memory now. When she considered Diggory, the only thoughts he evoked from her in the years she'd been Riddle's consort were of mild curiosity and admittedly negligible vexation. Diggory was _too_ good. Almost sickeningly so.

Well, that had been her thoughts until the previous day. Since Diggory's reflexive response to protect Riddle… no, to protect _Salomé,_ she'd been forced to re-evaluate the image of the man she knew. Salomé had always perceived Diggory as being Good, of striving to commit himself to whatever was best for the witches and wizards of Britain. Of the world, even, for she certainly wouldn't put such self-assumed responsibilities past him. Except that he had dropped all of that. Dropped it with barely a moment of hesitation at Riddle's offer of a position as Salomé's bodyguard.

That had been truly baffling, even with the smugly satisfied explanation Riddle had afforded her shortly afterwards.

When the hype had died, when Riddle, Salomé and their entourage had retreated first to the celebratory formal ball and then to the privacy of Riddle Manor, they secreted themselves within their suites. Without prompting, Riddle dove straight to the heart of the matter.

"Diggory will be accompanying you every day for the foreseeable future." Pacing slowly towards the decanter balanced atop the stone fireplace, Riddle didn't even look towards Salomé where she stood motionless in the middle of his wide, Spartan suite. "I trust you've no objections."

Of course Salomé had objections. She objected to the very necessity of a bodyguard itself; the very assumption that she was so incompetent in protecting itself was provocative to the extreme. And the most infuriating part was that Riddle knew she was capable of taking care of herself. He'd voiced on more than one instance, as though proudly preening over a prized hound, how magically superior Salomé was to all but himself. More so than his other Apprentices even, to their seething disgruntlement. It was only after brief contemplation that Salomé realised the bodyguard was as much of a leash as anything else. Which would explain why they changed so often; nary a one was able to truly glue themself to her if Salomé chose to wander off on her own.

But then, why Diggory?

The question must have been written upon her face – much to Salomé's disgruntlement – for when Riddle turned around once more, a glass with two fingers of Scotch pinched delicately between his fingers, he smirked at her. "You have a question, my dear?"

Forcing herself into casualness, Salomé shrugged one shoulder and slid gracefully down onto one of the black leather sofas. They were just slightly warmed by the radiance of the fire, emitting a hint of musky fragrance. "It is of little consequence."

"Come, ask me." Riddle said. He continued to smirk as he took a sip of his Scotch.

Salomé averted her eyes as a necessity. Riddle knew exactly what she wanted to ask and was obviously deliberately baiting her. She decided that, in this one instance, she would allow herself to be tempted. "I only wondered, my Lord, that you would so readily accept Diggory, an Auror and largely considered the epitome of Light in the Department of Law Enforcement of the Ministry, as my accompaniment." She turned hooded eyes towards Riddle, arching an eyebrow in a deliberate display to indicate that she was not – _entirely_ not – unnerved by the situation.

Riddle placed his barely sipped glass atop the fireplace with the slight clink of stone. He walked with his usual slow, deliberate steps towards the settee, looming over Salomé in what would have definitely been intimidating to anyone who hadn't experienced as much hundreds of times before. "You are correct, of course. Diggory is perhaps one of the most definitively aligned subjects of the Ministry, if not in a particularly active or overt way. He does little to hide the fact. Nor does he hide that his alliances lie decidedly opposite to our own."

"Then why…?" Salomé asked, trailing off.

"However," Riddle spoke as though Salomé hadn't uttered a word. "I do not believe this to be an issue."

He dropped himself down onto the cushion beside Salomé with a faint sigh, slumping lazily in a manner that still managed to look elegant and enhance the long limbs that he stretched before himself. Salomé shifted slightly to turn more easily towards him. She allowed herself a slight frown; a deliberate frown, so as to encourage explanation from the smug miser of intelligence. "And why is that?"

"Quite simply, because I read his mind."

The statement raised as many questions as it answered. More, even. But once more Salomé didn't need to prod for information; Riddle offered it up easily enough. He was evidently in a good mood and very satisfied with himself, though Salomé doubted many besides herself would such satisfaction. "When I looked into Diggory's mind, I saw the hatred he felt for me. I saw a shadow of his allegiance to the Light, and I felt a very deliberate barrier guarding what I can only assume were the secrets of our foes with which he aligns himself. He is clearly a member of the Order of the Phoenix."

It was a show of what a good mood Riddle had been in that he barely sneered at mention of the Order. He only tilted his head back slightly to lean against the back of the settee. "However, in spite of this allegiance and his obvious disgust of my regime, there is a… fascination, shall we call it, in his mind which overrides even that. Overrides and leaves that allegiance ground into dust in his wake." Riddle's eyes flickered towards Salomé, though he didn't turn his head. "You."

Salomé blinked slowly, just the once. "Me?"

"Yes, _you_. He is positively _obsessed_ with you." Riddle's voice hissed in almost parseltongue magnitude, but it didn't seem in anger. To Salomé, he sounded almost delighted, which was far more terrifying.

Salomé felt her other eyebrow rise unbidden to join the first. "Is that so?" She kept her voice carefully neutral but was sure Riddle heard the true question in her tone nonetheless: _and you're okay with that?_

Riddle's chin had dropped in a tilt, nodding just slightly. "Indeed. Truly obsessed, to a degree that I cannot fathom." His voice was genuinely baffled by the notion, and it was only Salomé's understanding of the man's character that prevented her from being even slightly offended by the fact. She didn't place much importance upon herself, and hardly thought herself precious, but it was still a blow to the ego to be so disregarded. "I have never seen such commitment, for it is not the dedication of a parent to child, nor even the fixation between lovers. He does not _lust_ after you; I could not find even a flicker of such attraction in my search. And yet he would lay his life on the line for you, that much I am certain."

Salomé was under no illusions that Riddle was certain what such an obsession looked like. In his first year of returning, he'd gone through one of many phases that he termed 'scientific endeavours' where he tested the lengths family would go to for one another's sakes, and it hadn't all been through torture and eventual death. No, Riddle treated such experiments like a child with a science project; he approached it from multiple angles, seeking to dissect the very foundations that made up such emotional commitment and rip them apart. It was something he had never experienced, could not and likely never would understand. As such, he was left with either destroying it, or creating an inventory of observatory knowledge vast enough to accommodate such a lack of understanding.

So when Riddle claimed it was unlike any obsession he had ever seen, Salomé knew that Diggory was even more of an oddity than she had considered. And perhaps… not quite so pure and Good as she'd thought, for as deeply obsessed as Riddle claimed him, there must have been something that had warped him. Salomé had never spoken to the man, not since she had been a fourteen year old boy, and yet such commitment…

It would have been disconcerting, and perhaps even unnerving, if Salomé didn't find it so intriguing. Intriguing in an entirely different way to Riddle however, for his following words cleared up any further confusion she may have had on the matter. Though, truth be told, she had largely deduced the true reasoning before he finally revealed it. "We will use this. Diggory is allied with the Order, with Dumbledore. Or he was; I am not sure the old man would be all too ready to accept him back into their midst having accepted my offer to be your bodyguard. And yet even so," Riddle finally turned his full attention towards Salomé. "We will use this. You will pull every whisper, every passing thought, of the Order and their plans, their members and their approaches, from the man's mind. He may be hesitant at first, but yes, he is obsessed. Diggory will give you that which you request. And you will do so."

"And even beyond request, perhaps?" Salomé murmured, tilting her chin in feigned thoughtfulness.

Riddle smirked. "Of course. By any means necessary."

Salomé allowed herself a slow, suggestive smile. "Is that _any_ means, my Lord?"

Riddle struck out at that, his hand darting out like a viper and snapping painfully tight around Salomé's wrist. His smirk twisting into a snarl and with that the conversation effectively ended.

Salomé contemplated the conversation as she allowed Nanny to dress her in her robes, the elf tugging the laces of the bodice tightly from her perch atop a the stool. It all came down to information, really. Riddle was using her as a mole, a leech to drain the well of information from Diggory that he would undoubtedly be resistant to bequeathing, despite Riddle's confidence in the depth of his supposed obsession. Well, confidence in the obsession, but also in Salomé's Legilimancy abilities. She'd learnt from one of the best, after all. If necessary, Salomé wouldn't hesitate to draw the thoughts from Diggory's mind.

Not that she particularly wanted to. She'd been directed to, yes, but Salomé had long stretched the bounds of Riddle's instructions to meet her own agenda. Regardless of how many from both Light or Dark saw her, she was not of Riddle's party. She was not of the Order's either, but that was of little consequence. No, if Salomé extracted information from Diggory, she would translate it to Riddle in the titbits and nibbles that _she_ would allow. Not what he demanded.

Still, despite feeling mildly disgruntled at being forced into such a position by Riddle, of being _used_ as she so often was… Salomé was actually looking forward to unravelling the mystery of her new bodyguard. From what little she knew, it seemed to her as though Diggory was definitely a fascination she could invest her interest in.

Salomé would not, however, hasten in her daily routine on his behalf. The man had waited hours already; what difference was a little longer?

When Salomé finally finished her outfitting, placing the last of the pins into her coiled up-do and unnecessarily smoothing her skirts as she rose to standing from her vanity, she paused to turn to Nanny. The elf was still perched atop her stool, balancing with the ease of a master acrobat. "I shall likely be out this evening again, Nanny. And also likely to spend the night not in my own bed."

Nanny's ears quivered and her little lips pouted. "Nanny will be turning down the sheets anyway, Mistress."

"Don't trouble yourself, Nanny. It is unnecessary."

Nanny shook her head solemnly. "Just in case, Mistress. Just in case. Nanny wouldn't want Mistress to come back to unfit rooms."

Salomé couldn't withhold the fond smile that tugged just slightly on her lips at the tangible stubbornness. She didn't try either, not in the privacy of her own rooms. "Then I shall strive to ensure I make a visit. For your sake, of course." Though in truth, the prospect of sleeping in her own bed as opposed to Riddle's was _very_ desirable.

Beaming as though she'd been gifted with a new tea towel, Nanny tipped her head in a bow. "Thank you, Mistress. Nanny will be making sure to leave some biscuits waiting as well, just in case." And before Salomé could object further, she jumped down from her bed and set to clearing the array of pots scattered across the vanity table.

Shaking her head, Salomé turned towards the door to her rooms and glided towards the hallway. Stepping from her suite, it took the faintest of efforts to urge herself not to turn her head in both directions in search of Diggory.

As it happened, she didn't need to. Diggory had stationed himself directly across from the door, standing straight and tall but with an easy stance, arms held loosely at his sides in a stance that he likely could have held for hours. He was staring fixedly at the floor, affording Salomé a view of his dark blonde crown, but snapped his chin up as she stepped from her rooms.

Handsome. That was the word that Salomé would allot to the man. Handsome without being dashing, or pretty, or 'sexy'. He wasn't quite rugged, yet he lacked the fine bones and straight features of refinement. He wasn't breath-taking as Riddle managed to be in spite of the inhumanity of the Dark Lord's gaze and general aura, and yet he could certainly have drawn attention, and not only because of his height and the breadth of his shoulders. Dark eyes that seemed all too familiar with mirth, a straight nose and strong jaw just slightly speckled with golden stubble. Salomé found her eyes settling upon his chin almost unconsciously; Riddle was always clean-shaven to the point that she suspected it to be Charmed that way at the very least. And, in being so, the man had started a fashion. It was almost odd to see a respectable man with any sort of facial hair.

Yes, handsome was the right word. Not as much as Riddle, nor a number of the men Salomé was affiliated with, but certainly distinctly. His very plain and very basic black robes did nothing to detract from the impression.

"Good morning, my Lady."

Standing tall and taking half a step towards her, Salomé was almost annoyed to notice that she did not even reach Diggory's shoulder. She kept her vexation from showing, however. "Good morning, Mister Diggory. And please, if you would, call me Salomé. I so detest the term 'lady'."

Diggory beamed as though Salomé had gifted him the answer to Magic itself. "Of course. I would be more than happy to. I only resorted to formality for hesitancy as to your personal preferences." He dipped his head in something of a bow. "Then Salomé, please do me the honour of referring to me by my name as well. Mister Diggory makes me feel so old."

Salomé blinked in the face of Diggory's blinding smile. To be honest, she had only claimed disfavour for the term as a means of being disruptive, the aim of being unhinging. She couldn't care less what her bodyguards called her. They were, after all, only bodyguards, and the fact that Salomé would be required to invest slightly more in Diggory had no impact upon that whatsoever. But Cedric actually seemed to appreciate her words, as though she had done him a favour.

 _Such a strange man. Perhaps he truly is touched in the head_? For what else could explain the 'obsession' Riddle referred to?

Turning her head away from him, Salomé deliberately set off in the direction of the Meet Hall. She didn't pause to ensure Diggory followed; on his head be it if he didn't. Besides, the feel of the man just a step back and to the side of her was indication enough. Salomé very pointedly left the 'uplifting' conversation behind them. "I assume you have been informed of your duties, sir?"

"Cedric, please," Diggory reiterated. "And yes, Mr Tumund has given me a somewhat extensive rundown."

"If you have any questions, do ask," Salomé said, although in truth she had no intention of offering assistance herself. Should Diggory ask, she would immediately direct him to Tumund. Of course she would.

"No, I feel that I have a handle on it. One: follow you; two: protect you; and three: fulfil any requests you should ask of me without infringing upon duties one and two." Salomé could almost hear the smile in Diggory's voice. She felt unnecessarily and exceptionally disgruntled by the fact, though attributed it mostly to the fact that he was her 'bodyguard'. The very notion continued to irk her to no end. "Thank you anyway, though. I'll be sure to keep your suggestion in mind."

"Be sure you do, sir. I despise incompetency," Salomé murmured, muting her tone to barely audible. She kept her voice deliberately cool and distant; these first few days, these first few hours, were integral in establishing a precedent for future correspondences with Diggory. Intimidation to the point of respect; that was Salomé's tactic. It always had been. Such was necessary.

"Then I'll strive to make myself as competent as is within my abilities, Salomé," Diggory replied. Infuriatingly, he sounded no less jovial for her chilling tone. "It's a duty I'm most satisfied to commit myself to. And please, call me Cedric."

Salomé glanced sideways at the man following her as closely as a shadow. He _was_ smiling, damn him. He appeared far too satisfied with the situation, especially given that he was, without doubt, a supporter of the Light wandering the halls of one of the Darkest buildings in the Wizarding world. And yet in spite of that, for some reason Salomé actually found her indignation and irritation fading as curiosity arose to take its place. It was probably that more than anything else that drove her to reply with, "Very well. Cedric."

The broadening smile that stretched across Diggory's face – across Cedric's face – was sickeningly sweet. And Salomé in no way felt any inclination to smile herself for its infectiousness. The fact that she dropped her chin and hastened up her steps was for another reason entirely.

* * *

Over the following weeks, Cedric became something of a shadow to Salomé. And Salomé, much to her own surprise, found that despite of his predecessors and their infuriating nature, she found he was not nearly as objectionable a presence as she had anticipated.

For one, Cedric wasn't an idiot. That much was apparent, even from the few actual conversations they shared. They kept a pointedly professional distance between them in the first few days – Salomé made sure of that – and yet the man's intelligence still managed to pervade his silences. There was intuitiveness in his eyes that varied between curious sparkling and narrowed consideration upon accompanying Salomé to various meetings. Even if such meetings generally left him waiting outside closed doors on the other side of a Privacy Ward, he was far from the muscle heads she'd been forced into the company of before.

Of course, bodyguard though he may be, Cedric was certainly not permitted in such meetings.

It was a refreshing change from the muscle heads that Riddle had outfitted Salomé with in the past. For that is what they were, all of them, to a T. Muscle-bound oxen with little enough brains to follow the express directions of Riddle himself and not the motivation, inclination, nor courage to do otherwise. Intimidation was their purpose in a way lacking in the subtlety that Salomé proudly practiced herself; they acted as the stoic, glaring, folded-armed hulks that followed in Salomé's footsteps and spooked any potential aggressors from her path. Not that they would be able to act with any adequate response, Salomé knew, except to perhaps blast such aggressors into smithereens.

They hadn't the smarts to consider any other response.

Which was exactly the way Riddle liked it. He preferred Salomé's bodyguards as dumb, loyal guard dogs, trained to follow orders. Such individuals were available in excess and were similarly more than ready to spring to every request Riddle could possibly utter. They would never consider acting against his command, never stray from his directions, and most importantly lacked the mental capacity to prevent scanning invasions of the Dark Lord's Legilimens upon his regular slips into their minds.

Cedric was so utterly different. He possessed the physical components of his predecessors, if on a less hulking degree – his muscles didn't appear to be straining to escape from his skin and he could actually hold his arms properly to his sides. He did not induce unease with a glance, but that was mostly because his face rested in something other than an ugly scowl that most assumed conveyed aggression when in actual fact was more the go-to for confused stupidity. Cedric listened, he _absorbed_ , and when Salomé spoke to him he actually appeared to comprehend her completely.

Which was the second reason Salomé found him less objectionable. Cedric listened to _her_. Not Riddle, or at least not in the awed, nervous and instantly, compulsively submissive response of every other one of the Dark Lord's subordinates. The first time Riddle had spoken to Cedric after his appointment had been somewhat indicative of those to follow. It had been in the parlour alongside a banquet hall, in the hour following a formal luncheon with a number of notable political representatives that drifted around the dark, sparsely clad room and attempted to avoid drawing the Dark Lord's attention. Not that they needed to have worried in that moment; Riddle had pinned Cedric with a stare like a hypnotic, predating viper.

"You are aware of your duties?" He said quietly.

Cedric remained remarkably calm under Riddle's serpentine gaze. Salomé noticed that he did shift in the slight unease that was customary of all who weren't exposed to Riddle on a regrettably frequent basis, but he didn't cower. That at least was commendable. "Of course, my Lord."

"I will be frequently overseeing your written submissions to Tumund, and conducting sporadic Legilimens in future. You have no objections?"

There was little actual request in Riddle's question, and Salomé, standing slightly to the side and roughly between the two men, could see that Cedric knew it too. His jaw tightened slightly, barely enough to be seen, and there was indeed objection in his eyes if coupled by a hint of apprehension. However, after only a moments pause he dipped his head in assent. "Yes, sir."

"And should I find you… unworthy of your role as my dear little bird's accompaniment, I shall find no compunctions in ejecting you from my service." There was a note of almost savage delight in Riddle's tone at the mention of it. Salomé suspected he looked forward to the day and saw it as a certainty upon the horizon rather than merely a possibility.

Cedric evidently realised as much too. He twitched just slightly beneath Riddle's attention, but only for a moment before his eyes shifted deliberately towards Salomé, and he bowed his head once more. It was, however, very definitely to her this time. "So long as Lady Salomé finds use in my services and I can continue to offer her protection, I will strive to my utmost. Should… my Lord find my attempts objectionable, I am sure that such ejection would be warranted." And though he referred to Riddle with his words, there was not a one of them that considered he deferred not to him.

Salomé slid her gaze sideways towards Riddle. It was a coin's toss whether he would explode into seething rage at the unspoken slight and she intended to remove herself from his immediate vicinity if such should occur. She was surprised, then, to find him not tensed in rising anger but curling his lips in a satisfied smile. As though he were actually _happy_ with the response.

Turning his own attention to Salomé, Riddle met her gaze. "Good. Than so long as we share an understanding." His voice hissed slightly, sibilant in its murmur. "But be aware of your station, Mr Diggory. Be sure as to prevent infringing upon that which is above you."

In case the suggestion passed Cedric's obviously exceptional observational skills, Riddle deliberately reached out a hand and tucked a lock of Salomé's hair behind her ear. It was uncharacteristically gentle, and left Salomé feeling slightly repulsed when he extracted his fingers. A moment later, Riddle turned and left them, falling into an obliterating argument with Lord Twoll who quickly smoldered into a cowering mess.

Salomé shifted her sideways glance towards Cedric. She found him still turned towards her, his regard quiet and thoughtful and devoid of the momentary and barely perceivable quailing of moments before. Sighing casually, Salomé deliberately untucked the hair Riddle had fixed. "I'm sure I need not fill you in on the blanks."

His mouth quirking in a brief touch of amusement, Cedric shook his head. "No, I don't believe you do. Though perhaps I should fill you in on my own?" At Salomé's questioningly raised eyebrow, his smile widened further. "Riddle may have hired me, but I am your… 'bodyguard', as he terms it. And to me, that means that I defer to you and you alone."

Sparing a moment to glance towards Riddle – poor Twoll had nearly sunken into the floor at that point – Salomé hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps you should have informed my Lord of such before now. Be assured that he has a supposition of such a truth, but I feel a more definitive outline of your perspective might be enlightening."

A muted chuckle from Cedric drew Salomé's attention back towards him, her eyebrows rising once more. She couldn't quite discern the meaning of the gaze he fixed her with, but she was certain there was something more there than the amusement that appeared on the surface. "You might be right there. But I don't particularly want to stick my foot into that pit of snakes."

"An apt analogy, Mr Diggory."

"Cedric," he corrected, as he had done on numerous instances over the past days. "But yes, I thought so. I'm not oblivious to the danger of my own situation."

Salomé peered at him sceptically. She had to wonder at that. "Is that so...?"

Shrugging, Cedric shifted his stance slightly. Any remaining tension he'd held upon talking with Riddle faded and he looked almost comfortable. Comfortable and easy in a way that Salomé was recognising for it's presenting itself almost constantly when just the two of them were together. He nodded. "Of course. Let's not be deliberately obtuse; we both know I'm familiar with the Order of the Phoenix. And if Riddle isn't aware of it too, then he's hardly the threat that the world both publicly and secretly perceives him as." Cedric shrugged again. "But I stand by my own feelings, and what I said before: my allegiance lies with you. I'm loyal to _you_."

The notion had been raised on more than one instance, and Salomé still found it odd. No less when Cedric met her gaze with his own, so open and resolute. He was surely capable of capturing more than one light heart with those eyes. And yet, for all of his honesty and openness, the impression left Salomé uneasy, confused at best. She shook her head. "I've not the faintest idea why you feel as such."

The words were spoken more to herself than to Cedric, but he replied anyway. "You don't? You really have no idea?" At Salomé's flat stare of reply, his lips crooked in a half-smile. "I don't mean to insult your perceptive abilities –"

"Yes, you had best not."

"- just that I'm surprised you wouldn't know." Those meaningful, baffling undertones settled in his gaze once more. "It's quite simple, really. I've always been loyal to you. Or for some time now, at least."

Frowning, Salomé half turned and began a slow walk around the parlour, her step sending lords and ladies withdrawing as though she were parting the Red Sea. She swept a slow scan of those around her, though barely considered that which her gaze fell upon. Cedric fell into step slightly behind her, and after a few moments she half-turned towards him. "I confess I am unsure as to what you mean."

Cedric was silent for a moment. She turned her head further towards him to catch a glimpse of something akin to incredulity on his expression. "You really don't know why?"

Frowning, Salomé turned and hastened her step. What a foolishly redundant question. She couldn't abide such statements, or the undermining of her comprehension skills they entailed. Cedric kept pace with her easily enough, to her further disgruntlement.

He did, however, appear to realise that he had erred. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. Again."

"No, I don't suppose you did." Salomé kept her voice quiet and chilled in a way she knew could leave any man or woman cowering to the degree that Twoll continued to across the room. She felt no guilt for her ferocity; she owed nothing to Cedric.

"It is only that my loyalty is so profound to _me_ that I find it almost astounding that other people aren't as aware of the situation as I am." Cedric actually sounded self-deprecating in his words.

Salomé still didn't turn towards him. "How remarkably short-sighted of you, sir."

"I don't suppose you really remember all that well, then?" Cedric continued as though she hadn't spoken. He'd demonstrated marked resilience to her criticisms over the past few days, easily taking them on the chin, which was further infuriating. She admitted she didn't quite know how to approach his obliviousness. He continued undeterred. "What happened four years ago? In the graveyard?"

Salomé paused in step. For the first time in a long time she realised she was actually scowling in a completely emotion-driven manner. "Believe me, Mr Diggory, I remember all too well."

"Cedric," he corrected once more, and she felt about ready to slap him. "And I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sure you remember… _that_ all too well."

Had there been a hint of pity in Cedric's tone, Salomé really would have slapped him. As it was, he sounded merely thoughtful, which actually served to cool some of her sparked anger. Salomé narrowed her eyes, but didn't speak, awaiting his continuation.

Which he did a moment later. "I simply refer to the fact that certain aspects that were prominent to me may not have stood out as noteworthy in your opinion."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that you saved my life."

Genuine surprise stilled any immediate response that rose on Salomé's tongue. She felt her scowl dribble from her face as confusion took its place. Blinking up at Cedric – she hadn't even realised she'd turned towards him – she struggled to speak. "I did not save your life, sir."

Shaking his head, Cedric offered a small, faintly nostalgic smile. "Yes you did."

"I most certainly did not. I would have remembered that, I'm sure."

"I think we've established you might have had a little bit to preoccupy you at the time," Cedric said. His voice was low, for Salomé's ears only. "Understandable, given the circumstances. But what I remember was you, the Death Eaters falling upon us, and the Dark Lord. I remember running towards you, and you to me, but we weren't going to make it. And you pointed your wand at the Triwizard Cup – the portkey – and sent me to safety." Cedric paused and his eyes became glassy, distant and retrospective. "You sacrificed yourself to save me, someone you barely knew."

Salomé stared at Cedric, struggling to keep her face a mask of composure in the face of his sincerity. Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, in a place she had long since buried, something stirred. Something that highlighted the truth of his words. "I don't remember…"

Except that she did. In that moment, in the middle of a parlour filled with Death Eaters and Dark wizards and witches, Salomé recalled the past in an instant flash. Of terror, desperation, determination. The launching of a directionless spell and the mixed ache of relief and despair as the lifeline towards safety disappeared. The feel of the ground beneath her knees as she slumped to the floor, of the Death Eater's grasping hands locking around her arms, grasping the back of her head, shoving her face into the dirt.

Blinking rapidly, Salomé shook her head to rid herself of the sudden flash of memory. She released a huff of humourless laughter, brushing aside the painful sentimentality. "That was not sacrifice, Cedric. It was reflexive. Accidental, even. I can hardly be credited with –"

"Then that makes my feelings and loyalty even more warranted," Cedric cut in, his voice still low but swimming with warmth. His smile had returned, that half-smile that was far too fond for Salomé's comfort. It left her feeling… odd. "You saved me without a thought. And if that doesn't deserve at least a little loyalty, I don't know what does."

It took an effort to break her gaze from Cedric's, but Salomé did so with deliberate intent. She swept her gaze around the room, a quite scan to ensure that no one had noticed her conversation with Cedric or, if they had, that they were not close enough to have overheard. They weren't, all attention fixed upon Riddle or resolutely away from him where he now spoke in inaudible words with the Lord and Lady Oscarr.

 _Deserving…_ Shifting her attention back to Cedric, Salomé cocked her head and frowned. Her composure was returning in dribs and drabs, but it was definitely almost re-attained. "I think you'll find that you are misled. I am not the same person I was four years ago. You faithfulness to _me_ is entirely unwarranted."

Cedric was shaking his head even before Salomé finished. "No, you're not the same person. But then neither am I. Everyone changes, Salomé, but I don't believe that _everything_ about you has changed. And even if it is only a shadow of your past self that resides within you… well, I never claimed that I was logical in my feelings, but please believe me when I tell you they are strong and enduring. My intentions are not brief and changeable." Cedric's smile returned. "Call it the Hufflepuff in me, if you would."

Salomé snorted softly, shaking her head. "Hufflepuff. Of course." She turned to begin skirting around the room once more. She couldn't deny, however, that Cedric's words sparked something within her. She didn't know yet what it was, but… yes, _something_. It would certainly take some consideration.

But until then, Cedric was _hers_. Salomé didn't really understand why, or how, nor could she place her faith in his feelings as he so desired, but she would use it. At the end of the day, it was just a little empowering; Riddle thought himself at least a little in control of the situation. It was an exhilarating feeling to know that such control was entirely absented from the situation.

That loyalty of Cedric's made itself known more and more prominently over the weeks that followed, and not only because he took just about every opportunity to verbally remind Salomé of it. It was in his protectiveness that it truly demonstrated itself, and though he always remained on his guard when others were around – he was like a watchful hawk when they passed onto the streets of Wizarding or Muggle Britain, stating when Salomé commented on it that threats were more likely to appear when unexpected – it was when Salomé spent her hours in the Apprentice Wing that such demonstrations were truly enacted.

The Apprentice Wing was one of the largest in the Riddle Manor. It wasn't truly _in_ the manor as such but a building in itself, constructed when the first of Riddle's Apprentices graduated. A looming structure, taller even than the manor, it resembled nothing if not a spiralling tower of dusty-coloured brick, coiled, jutting rooftop and narrow windows more like arrow slits that showed only a darkness within when viewed from the outside. No one stepped foot in the Tower without the express permission of Riddle or his Apprentices; it wasn't worth the pain and torment they would face for trespassing without.

The Tower's rooms were segregated based on function and served as a site for experimentation, as was the Apprentice's duty as Riddle's subordinates. At the very base of the building, behind stonewalls that despite their thickness still failed to contain out the acrid smell of brews and concoctions, were the potions dungeons. A floor above was those reserved for transfiguration drills, with rooms overflowing with useless materials and artefacts of varying composition. The next contained gym-like arenas for battle magic spell-crafting, that above for the natural magics, then for alchemy, and so on until at the very top sprawled an impossibly tall room filled to the brim with ancient tomes and yellowing scrolls, some so old that they would have cracked to pieces had any been foolish enough to unroll them without a Preservation Charm installed.

That Tower was where Salomé spent the majority of her time when not with Riddle. Unfortunately it was also where the Apprentices idled away their own hours.

By and large, it was expected that the Apprentices not intermingle, except when cooperating to work towards a mutually benficial conclusion. Such was infrequent enough as it was; the Apprentices were proud people, and it was an unspoken rule that _none_ requested assistance from their fellows. One did not gain the title of an Apprentice by asking for help. However, that did not mean that sly attempts at harvesting the acquired knowledge of their fellows was not as much a role of their station as experimentation itself. Salomé often found herself confronted by her colleagues as they jabbed and prodded for information. It was often that she would find them in her pre-booked workspace, flipping through parchments or sniffing at cauldrons, as well as to taste the shadow of their passing in the rooms she had vacated as they searched for any slivers of discovery.

Loren was not a problem. The oldest of the Apprentices, he had long since detached himself from the 'messy exchanges' of his fellows. He kept himself as aloofly raised above them allas his prominent nose was tilted, and resolutely denied intermingling at any opportunity. Karlo was similarly removed, though that was more due to his nocturnal routine more than anything else; the man had a tendency to hide himself in shadows that blended almost seamlessly with his skin, and sought such shade even in the brief instances he arose in daylight hours. Not that Salomé didn't find his shadowed fingerprints leaving stains upon her workspace anyway; he was just less obvious about his attempts.

It was Jemima and Wesley that were the true thorns in her side. Jemima was a truly obnoxious woman who took sincere pride in Riddle's acknowledgement of her. Her incredible magical abilities were about her only exceptional feature, being largely plain of face and even more largely unattractive of character. She took her studies seriously and competed with unnecessary ferocity with those around her that had often resorted to violence and aggression. Salomé thought it almost laughable, really; Jemima was so obviously attempting to compensate for her perceived diminutive status that she was nothing but a pitifully wretched mole in avid search of knowledge.

Wesley was far less apparent in his competitiveness, though was truly Jemima's equal, all things considered. He simply presented an amicable guise, a smile set on his handsome face and a suggestive twinkle in his eye that had urged more young men and women into his chambers than Salomé cared to keep track of. Yet that amicability hid only a deep perversion and obsessive fixation with experimentation; Wesley revelled in discovering the effects of spells and potions directly upon the body, and his unwitting victims more often than not left his chambers misshapen or dazed with magical affliction.

It was whenever Wesley slipped into her workrooms that Cedric's protectiveness reared its head. More even than with Jemima, and an exaggerated demonstration of that exhibited in the scant instances when Karlo bared his face to the world. Salomé didn't even glance towards the door to determine it was Wesley who had entered anymore; she need only heed Cedric, who always adopted a tense readiness, like a wolf with hackles raised, to know without doubt.

The first instance occurred a week after Cedric's confrontation with Riddle in the parlour. Salomé had secreted herself in one of the deepest dungeons of the Tower, a full three-dozen feet of spiralling steps below the ground, and was working on extracting the strands of pomegranate essence from her Stockholm Potion with infinitesimal care. The compulsive effects of the seeds would be, she considered, of even greater potency after passing through the brewing sequence.

It was dark in the dungeon, lit only by an ambient green light that seeped from the walls and illuminated the sprawl of finely chopped ingredients and potions equipment scattered across the workbench. The room was relatively small, stone walled and windowless, with space enough for only Salomé herself, the wide cauldron before her and the trio of desks surrounding it. Cedric was shunted to the back of the room for want of a better place along the wall that had until recently had boasted an arched opening for a doorway.

That archway appeared silently at Wesley's arrival. Salomé felt the cavernous absence of vanquished stone as the Apprentice passed through the conjured opening but didn't turn to glance over her shoulder. Her attention was focused upon the measuring cylinder held steadily between her thumb and forefinger as she narrowed her eyes at the scale on the side, dropping fractional measures from the pooling pale blue liquid within. She could have guessed it was Wesley, though, without sparing even a moment to glance. It was always Wesley who interrupted her brewing, and even more so of late as she had drifted into pursuing mind-altering potions. He was simply fascinated with the concept of mental domination.

Salomé wasn't in the slightest. Not really, and hadn't a shadow on Wesley's interests. All things told, the role she filled as Riddle's Apprentice was even a little tiresome at times.

Some moments passed before anything happened, and when it was it was not Salomé who initiated it. "You will let me pass, _Auror_ , or I will ensure your blockade is the last function you serve."

At the sound of Wesley's sharp, spitting hiss, Salomé glanced over her shoulder, pausing only long enough to place her instruments onto the bench. Cedric stood between her and Wesley, nearly blocking the tall, dark-haired man from view, but the Apprentice's anger was visible nonetheless.

Gliding to Cedric's side, Salomé adopted a placid smile. Neither man noticed, too focused were they in their staring battle of wills. Cedric was yet to break his silence, though Wesley looked on the verge of speaking once more. "Wesley. What an unexpected and unpleasant surprise it is for you to drop by."

That got his attention. Wesley's dark eyes twitched slightly, flickering before he dropped them from Cedric's steadfast gaze and turned towards Salomé. His pale face was a sickly, almost fluorescent green in the glow of the dungeon. All of his rising anger dissipated, withdrawing from his face to be replaced with a smile as he shifted his full attention to her. "Salomé. You look resplendent as always. Until I met you, I had assumed that wearing Neutralising Attire could not look flattering upon anyone, not even I."

"When will you learn that superficial compliments will get you nowhere?" Salomé asked rhetorically. "What do you want?"

Wesley clucked his tongue as though vexed, though Salomé suspected it was for a different reason than her question. "Need I a reason to see you?"

"When I am secreted in the dungeons and obviously requesting seclusion?" Salomé blinked her eyes slowly, arching one eyebrow. "I had considered you intelligent enough to observe the meaning of such."

"Is that a compliment I hear in your own words?" Wesley smiled once more as though she had actively afforded him with much. "Salomé, I'm touched."

"Your deliberate obliviousness does you little credit, Wesley."

Wesley's smile only grew as though Salomé had indeed continued in paying him compliment. It died an instant later, however, when his attention shifted as though magnetised to Cedric once more. Cedric hadn't moved an inch and only altered his stance enough to present an image of casual readiness. "Secluded or not, Salomé, I had thought better of a bodyguard of yours than to so foolishly bar my way."

Salomé turned her head to gaze up at Cedric's profile in false thoughtfulness. "Oh? Foolish is it? I feel it more appropriate to consider his actions beneficial to my studies."

"He has not the right –"

"He has every right, Wesley, as I have instructed him to be my protector." Deliberately turning, Salomé made her way back towards the cauldron in the centre of the room. She picked up the glass stirring rod and tapped it once, twice, in a magical charm to rid it of contamination. "It is you who is infringing upon protocol."

'Instructed him? As your protector?" Wesley snorted. "I don't mean to _attack_ you Salomé. What could you possible need protecting from?"

"Oh, don't you?" Salomé dipped the rod into the cauldron, taking extra care to ensure not a ripple churned the stagnant surface of the potion. "Have you not in the past?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I do believe it was you who tampered with my dehydrated Rejuvenation Powder, Wesley. Minted fragments, I believe it was that you added. Truly, it was a very sloppy attempt on your part."

"Salomé, surely you could not believe –"

"I am working here, Wesley, and my work requires the utmost attention." Salomé leant forward slightly to catch a whiff of the potion. The fragrance was sweet, but not quite sweet enough for her purpose. "If you would please remove yourself."

"Can I not observe your workings? The Dark Lord has suggested on more occasions than one that observing the performance of others will further one's own skills." Wesley's voice was slightly mocking, cocky in a way that Salomé recognised as being reminiscent of that he adopted when entirely sure of his own success. "I only wish to better myself."

"My Lord has never referred to such before," Salomé murmured distratedly, stirring the potion with slow, measured spins of her wrist. "I do believe that Lord Riddle has rarely approved of thievery of knowledge –"

"Thievery?"

"- which is exactly what you are attempting." Salomé took another sniff of the cauldron and removed the stirring rod. She still didn't glance towards Wesley. "Now, I am about to progress onto a very arduous sequence of my brewing, so if you would please excuse yourself."

"Now listen, Salomé, you don't really mean –"

The choking sound that cut off Wesley's voice caused Salomé to glance over her shoulder towards him once more. Both Wesley and Cedric stood grounded where they had been before, but in contrast to Cedric's previously immobilised stance he had now rippled into a pose of battle-readiness, fluidity in stillness and wand poised at Wesley's face in a gesture that left no faint suspicions as to his preparation to fire a spell. Wesley was blinking at him with stunned surprise, visibly and evidently shocked by the notion that a mere _bodyguard_ would dare to threaten an Apprentice.

"I will please ask you to leave the rooms, Master Scott." Cedric spoke for the first time, voice low and dangerous in an entirely natural way. It was clear he meant every threat that his tone suggested.

"How dare you!" Wesley hissed, though his rage was touched by that continued surprise and something bordering on uneasiness. Everyone, even the most reclusive of the Dark wizards and witches of Riddle's social circles, had become familiar with Cedric Diggory in the loosest sense over the past weeks. And everyone now knew him by reputation; the man was Salomé's bodyguard and he was more than capable of fulfilling the duties that role entailed.

Deciding to jump in before the scene could escalate further, Salomé sighed with excessive loudness. "Wesley, if you would, please remove yourself from my dungeon."

"Salomé, your _dog_ has just –"

"He requested that which I have been doing since the moment you stepping into this room." Salomé folded her arms across her chest and fixed Wesley with a flat, hooded stare. The Apprentice, frozen still under the directional weight of Cedric's hefted wand, slid only his eyes towards her as she spoke. He swallowed audibly when he met her gaze.

"It was only a thought," he muttered, sounding nothing if not a petulant child. The protrusion of his lower lip did nothing to support his supposed maturity.

Salomé tipped her head in a single nod before reaffixing her flat stare. "Yes, it was. And a foolish thought at that. Now, if you please."

Wesley stared at her a moment longer. Then he shifted his gaze to Cedric, eyes narrowing with instant, venomous hate, before flicking down to the wand raised to nearly touch to his throat. There seemed to be a challenge in that stare, one directed not to Salomé but to Cedric, and Salomé was almost surprised when he took a step backwards a moment later. "Of course. If that is your desire. I would not presume to enforce my presence upon you any longer should you wish otherwise."

"Most kind of you," Salomé said, but it was to Wesley's back as he spun on his heel and stalked from the room. The stone archway rippled at his passing before caving back in upon itself, sealing the dungeon off from the corridor beyond once more. Salomé humoured that she could almost hear Wesley's footsteps stomping in indignant retreat.

Cedric lowered his wand and turned towards her. His expression was surprisingly neutral, open and without a hint of the anger or intimidation that he had expressed but moments before. He quirked an eyebrow at her. "I'm assuming that happens often?"

Salomé sighed. "More than I would like, yes."

"He seems like quite a persistent fellow."

"He is that. Nothing that I can't deal with but… well, I prefer not to resort to force in such delicate situations. Thankfully, my Stupefication Charms seem to leave a bit of an imprint upon his memory, so when required to act as such he usually leaves me be for a week or two afterwards."

Cedric pursed his lips thoughtfully, his eyes drifting back towards the blank stone where the archway had been. "Well, I guess it's my job to make sure he doesn't bother you anymore."

A smile tugged at Salomé's lips, one she forcibly refused to allow to surface. "Yes, I would think to add that to your list of responsibilities."

"I'll take pleasure in it then."

Cedric did, both take responsibility and pleasure, it would seem. An unexpected pleasure, really, considering that Salomé had not considered one so obviously Light as capable of acts of real and aggressive violence. For violent he was on one such occasion when, far be it from permanently deterred, Wesley returned just one instance too frequently and Cedric blasted him with an Expulsion Curse so strong that the Apprentice was reportedly bedridden for a full two days afterwards.

Salomé was admittedly exceptionally satisfied by that instance too.

It was probably that moment, not quite when Cedric's curse had struck but definitely around the incident, that Salomé shifted in her perspective of him. Shifted in a way that, if she were to be truthful to herself, had already been slowly turning since she had first met him again as the Auror he was. The annoyance and disgruntlement at the man's persistent lack of cowing, her confusion and exasperation for his puppy-like loyalty that was so irrational, gave way to tentative curiosity, to amusement more often than not and, dare she think it, camaraderie. Not in the traditional sense, of course; Salomé would never get close enough to someone to consider them a comrade. But with Cedric…

Well, if nothing else, he was certainly the best bodyguard she had ever had. And better than that, Salomé was beginning to believe wholeheartedly that yes, he really was entirely hers.

* * *

There was no laughter in the ballroom, as one would typically expect. Or at least expect from a regular ballroom. And despite the number of guests nearing one hundred, the thrum of voices was low and hushed, as though fearful of drowning out the gentle melodies of music that rung like wind chimes overhead. The twirling figures spinning around the central dance floor looked out of place in the tension, a stark contrast to their surrounding easiness. Even the colours of the artful and decorative robes cast in expensive cloth, the glittering headpieces and flashing jewels, seemed muted from the vibrancy that they perhaps should have been. Overall it was not, Salomé considered, how a party was supposed to be. Not that she truly knew how one should be like; Salomé had rarely attended any that varied from the familiar that was spread before her, despite knowing that it was, indeed, askew from what was considered the norm.

It was a relatively inconsequential event, a celebration for the passing of an anti-Muggle bill that was, all things told, of little consequence. Salomé had _ensured_ it was inconsequential, if more to spite the forward movement of Riddle's regime than any particular emotional investment on her part. Their gathering was truly more of an excuse for the rich and powerful to meet and wallow in their richness and power. Or at least, wallow they would have had the embodiment of such not drifted amongst them and intimidated with his simple presence.

At his side, Salomé could observe the shrinking of lords and ladies as she and Riddle passed. It was a familiar response and one she would not have been entirely averse to had it not been so pathetically pitiful. She felt nothing but disdain for most of the guests, with those she felt otherwise for vastly outnumbered.

"… don't believe that he truly understood the meaning of his own actions, my Lord," one such lord in particular – Winston Muncheon – was saying nervously to Riddle. He was a short man, balding, yet with eyebrows that made up for the fact. He wrung his hands as though they were dripping dishcloths, his eyes faintly crazed as he struggled to assert his opinion in the face of Riddle's regard.

For his part, Riddle regarded Muncheon as a hawk would a cowering mouse, contemplating the possibility of snatching it between its beak and ending its feeble life with a sharp snap. As was his usual, he was resplendent in a way that appeared both natural and impressive; sleek black robes tailored to an immaculate fit, soft dragonhide gloves polished to a reflective sheen even more shining that his perfectly coifed curls. He wore no jewels but for a signet ring over the top of his gloves on his right ring finger; he, unlike those around him, didn't need his wealth displayed to indicate prestige. Anyone ignorant enough to find themselves in the ballroom and _not_ know who he was would surely find themselves made very much aware in short order. And likely find such a process just a little painful, too.

"Your son is hardly one to consider 'his own actions' at any great depth, Muncheon," Riddle replied, his voice distant and cool as though he only half attended the conversation. His fingers plucked lightly at the waist of Salomé's robes where his arm loosely rested, the possessive hold almost casual. "I had thought that one of his upstanding status would know better than to tamper with that which was not his own."

Salomé bit back a sigh, struggling not to roll her eyes at Riddle's words and the trembling it induced in the lord before him. It was all a game to Riddle; he thoroughly enjoyed provoking terror from his inferiors and Muncheon was not the first of the night. It was almost boring to watch yet another repetition of his bullying.

Turning her attention back to the couple at her other side who, Salomé realised belatedly, had still been attempting to converse with her, she adopted an expression of mild interest. Lord and Lady Heslehurst were unobtrusive characters, barely noteworthy in society except that they were a family of old blood. Salomé didn't particularly like the woman, but Lord Heslehurst, with his keen gaze narrowed behind circular spectacles eerily similar to those Salomé had once worn, was interesting enough.

Unfortunately, it was not the Lord who spoke but his wife. Salomé could almost taste the currying flavour of her tone; she was not unfamiliar with such attempts and only found herself wondering once more why anyone would fathom that attempting to gain her favour would go anywhere in endearing them to the Dark Lord. As if he would care. It was more likely to induce the opposite

"Simply wonderful, I must profess. I've not seen anything quite like it in years." Lady Heslehurst beamed with only a hint of nervousness touching her broad, round face, tightening her eyes to draw little crow's feet in their corners. Salomé bit back another sigh. So flattery was her drawcard?

"I thank you for your compliment, my Lady."

Heslehurst beamed wider as though she had just hit the jackpot. "Well, it is a compliment most warranted. Tell me, Lady Salomé, for how long have you been dancing?"

It was always the same questions, as though they held any worth whatsoever. Salomé regretted the solo performance she'd danced at the beginning of the evening – a dance she'd been requested to perform – if such a response was what it elicited. Her performances were fairly customary at social dos, with Riddle making a point to flaunt that which he considered his. He revelled in the adoration of his subordinates almost as much as he did their cowering. Well, not quite almost, but a fair bit.

"It would be nearing four years now."

"Only four years!" Lady Heslehurst exclaimed, exchanging a glance with her husband who met her eyes flatly, almost dismissively. Yes, Salomé certainly did like the man more. "I would not believe it. Surely you have been dancing for as long as you have walked. Such talent does not arise from such a short time." The woman smiled with a touch of condescension, like a kindly grandmother would praise her granddaughter.

How dare she.

Salomé dropped the temperature of her tone into chilling iciness. "I can assure you that I speak the truth on this matter. I am not one to exaggerate my own capabilities where it is undue."

Heslehurst's smile died at Salomé's words. Good. She wasn't a complete moron to naively continue blundering forth after such a slight. She glanced once more towards her husband – he raised an eyebrow slightly in a way that nearly drew a smile from Salomé – before speaking once more. "Ah, yes, of course not. Um…" She cleared her throat. "Have you partaken in any new ballets of late, my Lady? I had heard rumours of such an eventuality."

Shaking her head, Salomé strove not to let the boredom creep into her expression. How many times had she been asked as much that night already? Was it three times or four? Honestly, whenever she did perform, the simpering nobles and politicians alike seemed to immediately tag her with the label of 'simple-minded' and 'airheaded' with little talents besides the Synchrynomancy she displayed for them like a dancing bear. Acknowledged in subdued tones amongst the wealthy houses as Riddle's consort, most seemed to believe her incapable of anything save prancing about prettily and lying abed with legs spread.

"No, I fear that such rumours hold little merit."

"Such a shame," Heslehurst tutted, and there was actually a touch of genuine regret upon her face. Perhaps she was slightly cultured after all. "I would dearly love to see such a performance. I am something of a ballet attendant myself."

"Is that so?" Salomé raised her eyebrows slightly in surprise. The woman hardly looked the part. "Have you a favourite?" For, if she expected such simple-mindedness and focus upon the trivial, who was Salomé to deny her that right?

Casting a glance towards Riddle – for one did not ignore the presence of the Dark Lord for too long, even if his attention was otherwise diverted – Heslehurst favoured Salomé with another smile. "I confess I have a fondness of the classical tragedies. _Giselle_ has always been a favourite of mine, alongside _Romeo and Juliet._ Although, of yourself, my Lady, I would sorely love to see you breath life into the character of the white swan."

Biting back a scowl at the woman's presumptuousness, Salomé drew a smooth, sweet smile across her face. "Lady Heslehurst, as you perhaps an admirer or Muggle cultural performance? I had not thought it of you." As the woman visibly paled at Salomé's words, at the suggestion of her traitorous tendencies, Salomé let her eyes drift in dreamy thoughtfulness. "Although, perhaps you are correct. I have always considered the swan a role I would delight in fulfilling." She settled her gaze upon Heslehurst once more, pinning her with a smile that actually caused the woman to flinch. "Although, all things considered, I would think myself more inclined to the part of a black swan than a white."

Heslehurst swallowed convulsively and seemed to draw away from Salomé without moving. She looked nothing if not desperate to flee the scene, a fact that Salomé was quite satisfied with from the stupid woman. She'd long honed her abilities to intimidate others, even if she didn't quite revel in it as much as Riddle and generally only enacted such upon the sickeningly spiteful and bootlicking nobles. They deserved it. Oddly enough, though, Lord Heslehurst looked anything but cowed; rather, he appeared to be struggling against the urge to smile himself.

Any further pursuit of conversation was delayed an instant later, however, when Riddle apparently decided he'd had enough of terrifying Muncheon and turned his attention towards Salomé. "My dear, are you perhaps enjoying yourself a little too much?" He flickered a glance towards the grey-faced Lady Heslehurst, a smirk drawing across his face.

Salomé, who had turned her own gaze towards Muncheon– the poor man looked to be nearly dripping with sweat and was two shades paler than Heslehurst – shifted her attention to Riddle. His impossibly dark eyes, deep and void-like as always, were approving rather than reprimanding. "Of course not, my Lord. I always take my pleasures in moderation."

Riddle's smirk grew more pronounced at her words. "Well then, perhaps you could seek such pleasure independently for a time? I must speak in isolation with the Minister. Do you think you could occupy yourself without urging the faint-hearted nobles into quivering messes?" His words were not hushed to save the dignity of those around him, but none of the listeners – for they were all listening intently – seemed affronted by the sentiment. Quite the contrary, really; most seemed on the point of openly agreeing with him.

Humming in false thoughtfulness, Salomé raised a finger to tap at her chin. "I believe I could find something to entertain me. It _has_ been nearly an hour since I last danced."

"How could you deprive your audience of such artistry?" Riddle said mockingly. "Please, do enjoy. Although," he paused, eyes narrowing slightly with cold intensity. "Do take care with whom you choose as your accompaniment. I am not fond that Malfoy boy, nor his supposed intentions."

"Of course, my Lord," Salomé replied. She didn't miss the threat in Riddle's tone, and though she could hardly say she favoured any of the Malfoys – the heir himself has changed little since their schooling days, even if his approach towards her had done a complete reversal – neither did she particularly want them to be crushed under the jealous whims of the Dark Lord. There were other, more worthy individuals that should receive such treatment. Like Epswith, the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs. He had a mean streak and Salomé had stumbled across his victims on more than one occasion. Just how he'd managed to climb so high in the political world with such violent and bloody tendencies was beyond Salomé.

Or maybe it was those tendencies that had urged him so high. Riddle was certainly similarly inclined.

Nodding, Riddle paused only long enough to give her side another almost painful and very pointed squeeze before turning on his heel and striding across the room. The milling guests parted before him, scurrying like fleeing roaches before a broom and re-mingling in the absence of his passage moments later. In seconds Riddle had disappeared from view.

Sighing silently in relief, Salomé closed her eyes briefly and let herself take a moment to relax. True, it would have been better had she accompanied Riddle, listened in on his conversation with the Minister of Magic. He was surely in the process of impressing demands that were thinly disguised as suggestions upon man, and it was only slightly redeeming to know that, if anyone, Pickling was most likely to be able to dance around such demands without committing to them entirely. He was not traitorous exactly, but neither was he wholly Dark. A good Minister, if Salomé did say so herself. She was quite satisfied with her decision to make him such.

But no, Salomé couldn't find it in herself to regret not tagging along. She'd listened to the numerous and often inconsequential discussions that had passed between Riddle and his lords and ladies all night, filing away important details and fabricating ways to raise troublesome issues without appearing to be deliberately intervening. It was, admittedly, tiring work and Salomé appreciated the respite.

Except that respite would hardly be the word she would use to describe her current circumstances. It was only a matter of time before the vultures descended.

With Riddle gone from her side, many would take the opportunity to attempt to clamber into Salomé's favour. She'd seen it all before, experienced it to the edge of her tolerance levels and quite frequently beyond beyond. As Riddle's consort, the nobles and politicians saw her as an easy route to favour, and most were only convinced otherwise after a thorough and often humiliating failure of their attempts. It was strange, really; they obviously found her intimidating, enough to warrant respectful and often nervous gazes, and yet their approaches were entirely insulting. So infrequently was she ever approached and questioned about her magical or academic ability, occurrences that Salomé knew for a fact were frequently experienced with her Apprentice colleagues.

And that was to say nothing of the young lords and heirs that sought a different kind of attention entirely, despite the fact that Riddle had all but openly staked his claim. Draco Malfoy, unfortunately, was prominent in that department. Would they never learn? Surely the up and coming wizards could see that pursuing the _Dark Lord's consort_ could only end in tears for them. Or for their families, at least. The dead, as Salomé had heard it, were largely incapable of crying real tears.

As she reaffirmed her composure, Salomé cast a quick glance around herself. For the moment the masses were keeping their distance, but she could already see the sidelong glances, hear the thoughts ticking as they processed the likelihood of making use of the opportunity presented and actually getting away with it. And, worse still, across the room Salomé could make out the platinum blond head of Draco Malfoy in a ring of his peers – she recognised some of them from her Hogwarts years too; Crabbe and Goyle Junior hadn't become any more physically appealing with time, and seemed only to have double in size. That blond head was making its gradual way across the room towards her.

Of course he was.

Salomé didn't waste another moment. Dance. She would find a partner, and she would dance, and in doing so save the foolish Malfoy boy from setting himself up for potential failure and destruction. And, after a quick scan of the room, Salomé knew of only one partner that she could completely trust to _not_ end up dead in a ditch after a few too many dances.

Slipping across the room – the guests similarly parted for her, though will less cowering speed than they had for Riddle – Salomé stopped only when she was less than three feet in front of Cedric. He had watched her approach, she knew. She didn't even have to check to know that he was watching, because Cedric always watched her. It was his role as a bodyguard, after all. Although… Salomé would be both foolish and lying if she were to consider that such a role was the only reason behind it.

Cedric was outfitted as befit the setting of the ball, dark-blond hair combed and barely a suggestion of stubble on his chin. His high-collared robes and flaring sleeves were typical of current fashion trends yet muted and coloured to allow him to slip easily into unobtrusiveness. He'd spent the entirety of the evening circling the room, nearly pressed against the wall and always as close as possible to Salomé and Riddle without infringing upon the pool of guests that surrounded them. Salomé had kept half an eye on him throughout the night, as much for interest's sake as anything else, and so had been aware of exactly where he had positioned himself should she have she need of him.

Stopping before him, Salomé paused for a moment before speaking. "Cedric, I request your assistance in a matter."

Offering a half-smile – he was always more than generous in such offerings, at least to Salomé– Cedric nodded his head. "How can I help?"

"Do you dance?"

Eyebrows rising slightly, Cedric nodded once more. "I can. Not as aptly as yourself, but I consider myself adequate enough."

Salomé pursed her lips. "Why do I have the suspicion you are under-exaggerating your abilities?" Cedric smiled again and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Come." She fluttered her fingers towards him in a beckoning request. Cedric paused for only a moment, eyebrows crossing in surprise, before he stepped from his station against the wall to her side. Salomé turned on her heel and led him towards the middle of the dance floor without glancing over her shoulder to ensure he followed.

Deciding upon her position, paused, turned and Salomé raised her arms expectantly. The gentle tones of the music provided the appropriate rhythm for a slow foxtrot, and those guests still dancing around her had made use of such appropriateness. Cedric, taking Salomé's request without comment, stepped into her arms directly and raised his own.

It was strange, in that moment. Salomé hadn't considered it anything particularly noteworthy when she had requested – ordered – that Cedric dance with her. He was her bodyguard that acted more like a personal servant than anything, and if he responded outside of such a station then it was entirely of his own inclination and not particularly vexing for her. In fact, Salomé had come to the conclusion over the past weeks – he'd been nearly a month in Riddle's employ now – that she did not, in fact, dislike Cedric Diggory. Not at all as much as she had considered she would, given he was to be her 'bodyguard'.

Salomé knew that Cedric perceived her differently. She'd known it even before he'd expressly claimed as much himself. For whatever reason, be it that which he stated was the reason for his unwavering loyalty or something else, Cedric seemed to genuinely care what happened to her. Not because of the implications of endangerment that would be inflicted by Riddle but because of _her_. And that care was conveyed pointedly, was impossible to overlook, in the moment when Cedric clasped one of Salomé's hands in his own and placed his other upon her waist. It was gentle, almost tender, delicate as though she would break with a touch too heavy yet firm enough to catch her should she somehow, stupidly, slip.

Oddly enough, such gentleness did not annoy Salomé as much as it perhaps should have.

They fell into their paces easily enough, flowing into the music, and Salomé found that her suspicions had been correct. "Not so inadequate after all, Cedric."

"I never said I was inadequate," Cedric replied, his voice soft enough for her ears alone. "Only that I'm nothing special."

"I had not considered exactly where you would learn to dance but then… well, if I recall correctly, you were not entirely incompetent some years ago at the Yule Ball."

Cedric's smile was a little sad this time, and his eyes softened slightly as he directed them into a slow, wide turn. "I didn't know I was such a subject of scrutiny at the time."

Diverting her eyes from his stare, Salomé cast an unseeing glance towards the dancers around them. "I would hardly claim myself scrutinising."

Cedric shrugged in a motion that somehow both managed expressiveness and failed to interrupt the fluidity of their gliding steps. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"I'm not embarrassed."

"I didn't say you were."

"Really?" Salome raised an eyebrow. "Because that's certainly what it sounded like, and I don't appreciate belittlement."

"I would never presume to belittle you, Salomé. I have too much respect for you for that."

Salomé slowly returned her gaze to Cedric, peering up at him through narrowed eyes. Had there been a hint of condescension, or of nervousness for that matter, in his words she would have hissed in affront and likely snapped him in two with a wandless, wordless enchantment. But Cedric, as always, appeared to know exactly the appropriate manner in which to approach such subjects. It would have been intensely irritating if Salomé wasn't so… so _grateful_ for it.

For that was what she was, she realised. Or was coming to realise, in a begrudging sort of way. Being with Cedric was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and it was not simply that he was kind, or honest and open towards her as none had been in all the years she'd been leashed at Riddle's side. She'd experienced that before in the shape of her few past friends, in Ron and Hermione and Ginny, in Mr and Mrs Weasley, in Professor McGonagall in her own way, and ex-headmaster Dumbledore when it suited him. Such were not unfamiliar to her, and hence she recognised them. But in so recognising, she was also aware that there was an undercurrent to their exchanges, to Cedric himself and his impression of her, which Salomé hadn't previously experienced. She just couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. It was _that_ which was so foreign.

That foreignness could have been disconcerting, could have left Salomé with an unhinged feeling of uneasiness and led her to demand that Cedric be removed from Riddle's – from _her_ – services immediately. And yet Salomé had come to realise over the past weeks that she actually didn't want that. Somehow, quite unexpectedly and definitely unbidden, Cedric had planted himself into her life and nestled himself there quite nicely. Firmly, definitely, and comfortably. In such a short time, Salomé had come to expect his presence, and if she did not so much rely upon them his services, they certainly didn't go unappreciated. It was such a strange feeling, to be utilising the assistance of another, to feel grateful even for that assistance… Salomé had been striking out alone, wading through thick, squelching mud for so long that she had grown strong from such independence. To be suddenly assisted with a quiet, helping hand, to feel herself drawn from such clinging struggles just a little and assisted through the clinging stink…

No, it was not unwanted. It was appreciated. Unexpectedly and begrudgingly at first appreciated. It helped that she had found herself growing quite fond Cedric, too. He was smart, and a proficient and easy conversationalist while still being able to assert his own judgments and opinions. But more than that, and quite to Salomé's surprise, he was not as wholly Good and Light as she had previously considered him. As the world at large had considered him before his apparent defection when stepping into her services. It was true, he very pointedly stood opposed to the 'Darkness'; he made no attempt to hide as much, and Riddle actually seemed amused by his persistence. But even with his aversion from Dark magic and Riddle's regime, he was not as pure, innocent and untainted as Salomé had been led to believe.

No, Cedric was certainly not entirely _Good_. He did not cringe from cursing, or from his own form of intimidation to deter unwanted company. He was certainly polite enough about it most of the time but, well… if the impressive Stupefications that he had on more than two occasions already cast at Wesley and once at Jemima were any indication, he could be quite explosively blunt at times too.

Salomé found she actually quite liked that about him. One who shied from acting forcibly when it was absolutely necessary, who persisted with pacifism to their own detriment, was not worthy of respect or note. So Salomé decided that she would keep him. For now.

They swept their way across the dance floor, slipping into flight in a single, smooth motion, and Salomé noted detachedly that most of the other dancers cleared the way for them. They didn't entirely retreat but certainly gave she and Cedric enough space to spin the length room. There were more than a few eyes watching; Salomé could feel them. She knew that feeling, had been the subject of such gazes on more than one occasion, both solo and in her dances with Riddle and, on the infrequent occasion, the nervous lords old and young she partnered with. Except that in this instance, the knowledge of an audience was overlaid by the overwhelming and curious experience of dancing with Cedric.

It was entirely different to how it felt with Riddle. Certainly, he may not be as proficient at dancing, but there was gentleness, a coaxing manner to his motions that still managed to be respectful rather than dominating or aggressively directive as Riddle's was. It was a welcome change and left Salomé feeling far more in control of the dance than she usually would be.

Cedric was watching her with an unwavering stare that somehow managed to lack the predatory elements that Riddle's so often held. _His_ eyes were warm, and meeting them with a quiet regard as Salomé allowed her body to flow into the familiar motions of dance, she could make out the depth in them. _His_ held depth, with layers of shades and chips of gold embedded in the blurred hazel. There was such contrast to Riddle's flat blackness that for a moment Salomé couldn't shake her attention from them.

Finally, she reasserted control of herself. "So, Mr Diggory, are you finally going to tell me?"

Offering another crooked smile, Cedric's face expressed fond exasperation that he pointedly seemed to avoid at most every other instance. "Cedric, Salomé, please." He paused to a moment and they leant into an alternate direction. "And tell you what?"

"Don't be obtuse, Cedric," Salomé replied. "You've had something on your mind for the past few days. I think it's time you finally informed me of what you're withholding from me."

Cedric slowed them in their steps, hesitating in a way that could have been an intentional part of the dance before slipping back into motion. His expression grew contemplative, head tilting thoughtfully with a slight frown. "You've noticed?"

"It would be impossible not to," Salomé said, brushing off the sentimentality that Cedric clearly – and irrationally, in her opinion – felt for her supposed consideration. "You have been somewhat distracted over the past few days."

Which he had been. Salomé had spent enough time with Cedric over the passing weeks to know when something was on his mind. They had progressed from their formal distancing, admittedly mostly on Salomé's part, and had taken to engaging in idle conversation at times. Cedric accompanied her everywhere, from her days spent in the Apprentice Tower to formal meets with nobles and politicians to her infrequent wandering of the Muggle streets. It was to such a degree that Salomé had to wonder at his resilience; he seemed not to sleep at all.

Salomé knew that he was only definitely absent from the manor when she deliberately told him that she would be spending some private time with Riddle. In such instances, she knew that he understood the truth of what went on behind closed doors. It would be more of a failing on his part if he didn't. Salomé was not oblivious to the tightening of his jaw and the slight sharpening in his eyes; it wasn't the sort jealousy as she was familiar with that she saw it but instead something akin to the protectiveness Cedric so frequently wore. Although, in such instances it seemed to noticeably heighten.

But aside from that, on several occasions they had spent time simply idling away the quiet time. At first, in the brief instance when Salomé was permitted time to herself, she would engage in quiet reading, or jotting down personal hypothetical thoughts as was expected of her as an Apprentice, or even simply gazing out of the window in her suites. That had gradually changed, with the first instance being that when he had escorted her back to her rooms early one night, perhaps two weeks into his new role. On a spur of the moment decision, Salomé had suggested he accompany her for a sip of tea, and he'd taken her up on the offer. The tradition had stuck and since expanded; most mornings now he similarly joined her for breakfast.

She had become familiar with him, and if they were not friends – because Salomé didn't have friends – then they were at least amiable acquaintances. Salomé had learnt little enough about him personally, and in terms of harvesting information from the Order, her attempts had been nearly as fruitless. She suspected that which she had gleaned were likely carefully planted and left exposed in Cedric's mind, and held little enough significance in the greater scheme of things. It was quite simply just enough to deter Riddle's suspicions. But even so, such minimal and impersonal conversations had left Salomé with the knowledge of what was abnormal behaviour when Cedric was concerned.

"Well?" She prompted

Cedric appeared to be considering his words carefully. It was a testament to just how complex whatever his 'secret' was that he was pondering so much; Cedric had always informed her almost immediately of anything she wished to know, though she had not sought to pry. Salomé had supposed on more than one occasions that should she directly request intelligence of the Order he would likely provide her with anything she asked. Cedric was strange like that. His loyalty truly seemed to hold no bounds. Salomé was hesitant in her wary incredulity to test the bounds of that loyalty.

Finally, after gliding once more across the room and performing an artful pirouette Cedric guided her through, he spoke. "It's sort of a touchy subject."

"I had assumed as much," Salomé said with a nod. "And likely of a somewhat personal subject, or else I'm sure you would have spoken of it sooner."

Cedric shook his head. "You're far too perceptive for your own good."

"Hardly," Salomé replied. "But it is to my understanding that the issue of interest likely involves myself. Otherwise you would not be so hesitant yet compelled to share it with me."

Hesitating once more, Cedric grinned a little ruefully. "Far too perceptive…"

"You're dodging my question."

Sighing, Cedric bowed his head in a nod of defeat. "It's not that I'm hesitant to _tell_ you in so much as that I'm worried of your response."

Salomé arched an eyebrow. "Are you coddling me, Cedric?"

"Never," he replied, and there was utter sincerity alongside the amusement in his tone. "I fear more for myself should you choose to vent your potentially sparked anger upon me."

Rather than feel affronted by his suggestion, Salomé took Cedric's words as a compliment. She kept her feelings on the matter hidden, however. "Well, you won't find out unless you tell me, will you?"

Cedric uttered a muted chuckle. Though faintly strained, it sounded strange in the room that was so devoid of genuine good-humour. "That's true," he said, then paused again. Salomé waited expectantly, simply swaying to the motions of their steps as they drifted and glided about the room, sinking through spins and underturns, sways and swivels and entirely ignoring those around them. Cedric visibly reached a decision and firmed his jaw. When he spoke it was in such a low, hushed voice that Salomé could barely hear him. "I am friends with many in the Order of the Phoenix."

"I am aware of that," Salomé replied, her voice as muted as his own and barely moving her lips to speak. "And?"

"And certain people in the Order are most eager to meet you."

It was Salomé's turn to draw them to a brief pause mid step. She met Cedric's eyes flatly. "What?"

Flicking a quick glance around them, Cedric drew them into motion once more. Their steps were far less directional than they had been previously. "I told you that it was likely you'd object."

"I'm not objecting," Salomé refuted, but she heard the hardness in her own words. Taking a breath to calm herself – when had she gotten worked up? – she continued in a more mellow tone. "Continue. I promise not disrupt you again."

"It's quite alright," Cedric muttered. There was hardness in his own tone that Salomé found curious, but it was gone an instant later when he continued. "But really, it's not like that. Yes, there are people in the Order who wish to meet with you, many people in fact, but the ones I'm referring to seek as much for a very different matter."

"And what is that," Salomé urged him when he paused.

Cedric's lips quirked. His voice was barely a murmur this time. "They miss you."

Feeling her eyebrows rise in surprise, Salomé had to take a moment from their conversation to focus upon the simplicity of their dancing. Her feet moved on their own, and the naturalness of their motions was enough to instil some level of mental stability. "Who?"

"Several," Cedric said. "Hermione and Ron and Ginny, of course –"

"I've already spoken to them."

"They still miss you, though. And they still want to talk to you, to _actually_ talk to you." Cedric paused as though awaiting some sort of reply. A reply that Salomé refused to give. He sighed in little more than a heavy breath before continuing. "But more than that, Sirius wants to see you. And Remus."

The names drew an unexpected twinge from Salomé's chest. "Sirius?"

Cedric nodded. "He's been one of the most adamant, actually." Something in his eyes flashed, and Salomé got the impression there was something more there on the subject. "And unlike some, he wants to meet you purely for personal reasons."

"Is that so?" Salomé felt the rising twinge in her chest immediately stopper, hardening as reality made itself known. "He wishes to reconnect with his long-lost godson?"

"You could say that, yes."

"Then you shall have to inform him that said godson is effectively dead." Salomé deliberately turned her head from Cedric, shifting her attention to the slowly drifting dancers skirting around them. She felt her shoulders tense in a way that nearly disrupted her dancing but not quite.

"It's not like that," Cedric said. His voice was low and, though not quite hurried, intense.

Drawing her eyes towards him sidelong, Salomé saw insistence in his expression that piqued her curiosity, enough to override the coldness rapidly settling within her. "Sirius, yes, he was hurt by Harry's disappearance. But please know that he… he wants to meet _you_. Not Harry, and not the girl who was Harry, but Salomé. He's –" Cedric paused and offered a small smile. "He's sort of like me in that regard."

Turning fully towards Cedric, Salomé frowned. Not in anger – no, Salomé had not felt true anger in years – but in a manifestation of her wary curiosity. Cedric was always like that, always enforcing that, despite the loyalty that he'd held for Harry in the past, it was to Salomé that he was now truly dedicated. It didn't really make sense to her; how could he feel such loyalty for anyone other than the person she used to be? It was impossible, irrational, and more than a little stupid. But slowly Salomé was coming to if not comprehend than at least accept it. That though Cedric idolised and idealised Harry Potter from the past, he was one hundred per cent committed to Salomé Belaire and to whatever elements of her character that might entail. Confusing, and a little bit vexing in its confusion, but it elicited that odd sense of gratification within her once move.

It was that knowledge, that inkling of understanding, that urged Salomé to consider the situation more thoroughly than she otherwise would have. She had no urge to see her old friends – or not really.

No, she couldn't. _Didn't_.

They were figures from the long distant past. Her reluctance was only faintly less considering Sirius but then only because she hadn't seen the man for so long. Or Remus, for that matter. Both were very prominent members of the not-quite-covert Order of the Phoenix, and as such were forced to keep out of the public eye should some 'accident' befall them. Though Salomé had long since removed herself from any connections Harry Potter had in the past, that subconscious need, that desire to reconnect, niggled at her incessantly. Even more so since the past had rushed up to bombard the present.

Cedric was talking again with that same low intensity, and Salomé dragged herself from her thoughts to attend to him once more. "I know you don't want to see them. Or at least, I suspected you wouldn't. You have little enough reason to want to, and personally, for most of the Order I wouldn't deem them worth your time. Besides, they are not so altruistic as to overlook your public allegiances, even if it is more complicated than most think it is. But Sirius? Remus? Molly and Arthur? Ron and Hermione and Ginny? They want to see _you_. And I don't know fully how much that desire is to meet the you of the _now_ and how much is simply longing for the past, but –"

"Cedric," Salomé interrupted him before she was even aware she was of doing so. He paused and fell into directing their smooth, gentle steps rather than appealing to her absent kind-heartedness. Taking a slow breath, Salomé released it with a sigh. "They want to meet me?"

"They do."

"When? Where?"

Cedric came to a complete halt in their dancing. His hand still clasped her fingers, the other resting upon her waist, but the incredulous expression on his face indicated that he was unlikely to reinitiate their steps any time soon. "You… you mean you'll come?"

Shrugging with forced nonchalance, Salomé tapped a finger on his shoulder. "Within reason, yes."

A slow smile spread across Cedric's face. "I'm not sure of the details at present. The incessant nagging via owl and Floo – they're more demands, really – sort of waylaid our progression to any real decision. I don't think any of them truly believed you'd agree to it. But if you _do_ …"

Huffing loudly in a show of exasperation, Salomé very pointedly raised an eyebrow. "I am beginning to regret the hastiness of my words."

"No, no I didn't mean to suggest –" Cedric lifted the hand that rested upon Salomé's waist to run his fingers briefly through his hair. "I didn't mean to suggest any dubiousness on my own part." He dropped his hand back to settle on Salomé's hip with another smile. It seemed more genuine this time. "No, only that – well, I think it's more up to your own availability than anything else. We do, after all, dance to your whims, my Lady."

It was a tease – Cedric did that sometimes. Infrequently, but it did happen. Salomé took it with the false sincerity it offered. "As you should," She said. Pursing her lips, Salomé considered. "I shall have to see. Yes… we shall see."

In a movement so sudden that Salomé only had a moment to steady herself, Cedric spun her in a tight succession of spins, almost dizzyingly fast. The motions were not particularly refined, but were filled with genuine delight, an gratefulness that made up for the fact. It even did something to quell the rising incredulity of 'what exactly have I just agreed to?' that rose within Salomé.

"Thank you," Cedric beamed. It was an expression far too bright for the room.

Salomé could only cringe internally for the weight those words. There was something about Cedric's joy that elicited delight of her own. It was entirely unseemly, uncharacteristic, and slightly mortifying that one such as herself should exhibit such emotions. Salomé did not, and did not want to, consider the desires and whims of others. There was simply no point, and it would hardly help her to achieve her ends. And yet she could claim that, at least with Cedric, such a vibrant outcome was not entirely unsatisfactory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Sorry for the late update (again) but I hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you did (or didn't), please please PLEASE take a second to leave a review. I know it must sound tiresome to hear, but as a fanfiction author, comments are what I LIVE for. They're sort of like the encouragement to keep on writing, positive reinforcement if you would, and I'm not saying I'm a Pavlovian dog or anything but... Quite literally anything - compliments, questions, constructive criticisms - would be so appreciated. Thank you!


	9. Secrets

Number twelve Grimmauld Place was a no more respectable residency for having been lived in for the past five years then it was before. It was an impressive abode, however, for more than just its size and sheer number of rooms; no matter how many times the windows were scrubbed, the cobwebs unstrung from the cornices and the dust mites chased from the shadows, it retained its long held sense of foreboding and unwelcome.

Hermione was well acquainted with the distasteful ambiance of the Black residency. It had been the primary base of the Order of the Phoenix since she was fifteen, and she'd been a guest of its dark halls with increasing frequency in the years since. In her younger years, though her pride would have prevented her from admitting it, it had been a source of satisfaction to be included in the meetings, to pass through the wards of secrecy and partake even as a simple listener in the meetings of the side of the Light. Familiarity had quashed that satisfaction to resignation; Hermione would never feel comfortable in the closed rooms that carried a permanent odour of mould, no matter how arduously Mrs Weasley stubbornly attacked them with Cleaning Charms.

The central living area was no different to the rest of the house. It would have been considered modest to any other high born or noble family, yet to Hermione the sheer size of the room left her fidgeting uncomfortably in her seat even nearly an hour after folding herself onto the thinly cushioned couch. It was nearly as large as the entirety of the downstairs of her parent's home and almost the size of her own whole flat. The white walls were faded to grey, thin carpet that felt more like the floorboards beneath them than the softness the name so insinuated, heavy drapes of dark velvet nearly as faded as the walls for the clinging dust that flooded the air. That dust persisted as though no one had invaded the room for years to disrupt the peace.

The only source of vibrancy was the flames flickering in the low, granite-cast fireplace, the crackles spluttering indignantly into the static quiet of the room. The painfully uncomfortable couches and a number of other mismatched chairs ringed the hearth in a semi-circle, but other than the available seating the room was bare.

And intentionally so. Apparently Sirius liked it that way. He had reportedly gutted the house of most of its unattached furniture in the first year of his inhabitation.

Most of those seats, however, remained unfilled. Hermione retained her own, as did Ginny on her left. Mrs Weasley was similarly folded into a creaking rocking chair across from her, but most of the rest of the members of the room were afoot, standing or pacing with varying degrees of agitation. Sirius was wearing a steady track into the already weary carpet, bypassing Remus who stepped his own at a more sedate pace, eyes affixed to the floor. Mr Weasley walked idle rings around his wife, talking in a low voice of which Hermione didn't bother to strain her ears to hear. Fred and George drifted back and forth between the two murky windows, communicating in a silent conversation of expressions and gestures, and Ron plodded in slow steps behind Hermione and Ginny's couch, face thoughtful and closed.

All in all, the thumping of footsteps in various intensities created a thudding, melancholy tune. It could have been irritating, and Hermione would have likely found it as much had the circumstances been different, but given the tension and nervousness spawned like a living entity in the room she could hardly complain. It didn't help that Cedric was late. By nearly a whole hour.

It was finally the day. The day Hermione and her friends would see and actually talk to Salomé again. It had been exactly a week since Cedric had lettered Sirius to inform him that he had convinced her to grace them with her presence. That she'd agreed to meet them, had been the words Sirius had relayed to them all, and from them Hermione got the saddening impression that Salomé truly did not want to see them at all. The longer she thought about it the more it felt that way – that Riddle's Apprentice was being coerced into coming against her will.

Hermione hated that. She hated the idea that the girl who had once been her best friend wanted to avoid her.

By Sirius' suggestion - or demand, really - their meeting party was smaller than it could have been. Far smaller than it likely would have had anyone other than the Weasleys and Remus been informed of the situation. Sirius, and Remus when he'd gotten on board with the idea, expressed their desire 'not to overwhelm her' by bombarding her with too many faces from the past. That was what they'd said, anyway. Hermione was rather left with the impression that Sirius actively did not want certain people to be in attendance that afternoon.

She wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that. It was true, Order members like Moody and Snape had been nothing if not hard-hearted about the situation. But Dumbledore? Leaving Dumbledore out of the proceedings, even if it was truly just a reunion of sorts? No matter what Sirius and Cedric may think, Hermione couldn't believe that the elderly ex-headmaster would want for anything less than Salomé's wellbeing. In _any_ circumstances. Surely he wouldn't

Still, it was not Hermione's place to speak up. Not tonight. She would abide by Sirius' desires for the simple reason that she sorely, _sorely_ wanted to see Salomé. To speak to her. To try to find some iota of her old friend within the cold, powerful and seemingly Dark witch. She was simply grateful that Salomé had agreed to come at all.

So Hermione waited. She'd always thought herself adept at the waiting game, yet that afternoon was testing her confidence in her own capacity. From the jiggling of Ginny's leg and the frequent grumble from Ron, she suspected she wasn't the only one.

When the doorbell sounded, every head in the room whipped towards the open door of the living area. No one moved, hardly a breath sounding, as the hollow, echoing gongs ricocheted off the hallways and rippled through the house. The sound was foreboding itself, just like everything else in Grimmauld Place.

When the chiming stilled to silence - a full half minute after it first sounded - immobility persisted throughout the room. Each of them were frozen like ice sculptures; Hermione felt her heart thudding loudly in her chest, throbbing in her temples. Nervous. She was so terribly nervous. Hermione, like them all, longed to talk to the girl who had been Harry, but none could move -

Well, none save Sirius. For a full two seconds after the doorbell ceased chiming he paused. Then, so fast that Hermione didn't actually see him leap from the room, he disappeared. She would have thought he'd Apparated if not for the loud thumping of his footfalls along the hallways, muffling rapidly with distance. The similarly distant sound of the cavernous door opening on creaking hinges was followed by even more muffled voices. Deep voices. A man's voice? Cedric?

Still Hermione couldn't move and again she knew she was not the only one so incapacitated. From her periphery, for her eyes were still locked on the open doorway into the room, she could make out Remus paused in step, the twins halted in their silent conversation and eyes trained on the door, Mrs Weasley quivering slightly in her seat and Mr Weasley shifting from foot to foot. Beside her, Hermione could feel the tension growing only more taut in Ron's shoulders, a similar though less wary tension growing in Ginny.

There was a certain flavour to the emotions roiling throughout the room. Something more than nervousness. There was wary excitement, yes, but something more. Something... fear?

Hermione didn't get a chance to pursue the thought further, for the thumps of numerous returning footsteps padded up the hall. They were far less urgent than when Sirius had charged from the room, for certain, but with unerring, measured steps. A moment later, Cedric appeared in the doorway.

As his eyes quickly swept the room, Hermione felt her own widen slightly at the sight of him. Unexpected. Yes, that was certainly what it was. Cedric was dressed with all formality, his hair perfectly groomed in the stylish fashion of side swept casualness that was pervading the young nobility of late. A brief, diamanté-like scattering of raindrops adorned the shoulders of his dark dress robes that were themselves truly outstanding; though Cedric dressed himself appropriately - well, even, Hermione would consider - he was far from extravagent. He was certainly not one to garb himself in an Elverto, the expensive style with suggested by the trademark V-cut cuff of which the high-class designer possessed sole rights to.

It was unlike Cedric. The thought niggled at Hermione.

And yet her attention was drawn after only brief contemplation to meet his eyes as they turned towards her. It wasn't until she saw the flicker of softness, of fondness that was quickly muffled, that she realised her nervousness for the encounter was as much a product of the unsteady relationship she had with her friend. Cedric had avoided her of late, and if she knew him at all - which Hermione liked to think she did - it was because he was angry with her, upset even, and wished to remove the temptation of argument that communication would encourage. That was simply Cedric's way.

That brief softening of his eyes... that meant more to Hermione than she had heretofore considered possible.

Again, her contemplation was cut short, however, for Sirius and then Salomé herself stepped into the room. And instantly Hermione knew that not only her own attention but that of the rest of the room was affixed.

Hermione had never been self-conscious. Not really. She was comfortable with herself, could accept her flaws and know that other positives of her character far outweighed the negatives. And yet, in the presence of Salomé she felt instantly inadequate.

Salomé was, in every element of her physicality, a woman. More than that, she was the Ideal Woman, if such a single ideal existed. From her perfectly pinned tresses, cascading from the simple high tail, to her pale, unblemished skin, the graceful lines of her features and wide dark eyes. The elegant halter-neck of her robes, half-hidden by a cloak sprinkled with their own scattering of fine raindrops, accentuated smooth curves of her figure that instantly made Hermione feel frumpy. Frumpy, and unkempt, lacking and hapless and...

Inadequate.

Yes, the very sight of Salomé made Hermione feel _inadequate_ in an entirely melancholic fashion. A brief glance towards Ginny suggested that her friend was likeminded in such feelings, although to Hermione's curiosity she read something more, something unfathomable in Ginny's gaze. Still, whatever it was, it could hardly hold her attention for long. Salomé could likely outshine just about every person in the room wearing nothing but a shapeless potato sack. And she would just as likely make that potato sack look like a ball gown. Not only that, but her very presence, whether from admiration or intimidation, drew the eye.

It was only as Hermione forcibly shook herself, drawing free from her staring, that she realised that she and the rest of the room at large were under just as much scrutiny from Salomé. She afforded them a cold, aloof study, but a study nonetheless. Salomé's hooded gaze swept about them, pausing slightly upon each person with an expression devoid of emotion before moving onto the next. When it came to Hermione's turn, she could almost have sworn that a Legilimens was cast for the intensity of Salomé's gaze had she not known exactly what such an intrusion felt like. One did not survive long in the Wizarding world without being subjected to as much at least once. Not under Riddle's reign.

Sirius stood at Salomé's side, towering over her, and in an effort to shake herself from her stupor, Hermione trained her attention on him instead. She had to swallow a smile. Sirius, the hardened, driven, and often-volatile heir of Black, looked nothing if not an eager puppy. He was nearly shaking with visible excitement, shifting from foot to foot in physical steps and staring with something akin to adoration down at Salomé's face. An adoration that was coloured not in the slightest by the tension thrumming through the room.

It was because of this, the sheer juxtaposition of Sirius and the realisation that Salomé was, at least to some few, simply a person, that Hermione managed to shake herself into action. Fighting the urge to let someone else simply make the next move, Hermione cleared her throat and rose to her feet. _Someone_ had to do something, and just about everyone else in the room appeared frozen in fear or stupefaction. A glance towards the Weasley twin showed them to be, for perhaps the first time in their mutual lives, rendered speechless.

"Hello, Salomé," Hermione finally said. She had to fight the desire to cringe as the focus of everyone in the room – though primarily and most disconcertingly Salomé – spun towards her. She forced a feeble smile onto her lips. "Would you like to sit down?"

Salomé stared at her for so long that the urge to fidget gradually overcame that to shrink from attention. Finally, however, Salomé inclined her head in a nod. "Thank you, Hermione." And gliding across the room in a fashion that Hermione had always admired in a select few but never been capable of emulating herself, she took herself to one of the free chairs. Cedric and Sirius followed right behind her, stationing themselves in seats on either side of her. They almost seemed like bodyguards.

Which, Hermione thought sadly, perhaps they were. It was no secret that the Order had been fighting like tomcats over the issue of Salomé Belaire for the past few weeks.

Sharing a glance with Ron over her shoulder, Hermione slipped silently back into her seat. All eyes trained once more upon Salomé, and she, regal in perfect posture and cool aloofness, watched them back.

Silently.

And enduringly.

And it was becoming increasingly awkward. The tension on top of that awkwardness, the thrumming wariness, was pervasive. It was like –

"If this stasis continues, I fear our meet will be rendered nothing if not redundant."

Salomé's words drew a room-wide flinch from everyone, including Sirius at her side. Only Cedric seemed unfazed by her tone. Rather, instead of averting his gaze and becoming as closed as the rest of them, he ghost of a smile touched his cheeks. The first Hermione had seen since she'd revealed Salomé's identity to him. It felt like a burst of sun breaking through the smothering dark clouds flooding the room.

It was perhaps because of that illuminating light that Hermione saw it. It was so small, so subtle, that she almost overlooked it. But something in Salomé's expression, a faint tweak at the corner of her lips, amusement fluttering her eyelashes just slightly, suggested she wasn't as cold and apathetic as Hermione had assumed. It could have just been her projection, a fragile hope, but to Hermione she was sure she saw something of Harry in the woman across from her.

A grin spread across her face. "I'm sorry," she said. "You'll have to forgive all of us. We're… a little bit nervous, I suppose." She shrugged self-deprecatingly; nervousness may have been an understatement. "But really, we're a;; so happy that you decided to come."

"Decided is one way of putting it," Salomé murmured. She slid her eyes sidelong towards Cedric and his own smile blossomed fully on his face. It was a smile that Hermione had never seen before, and there was something… more to it. Something deeper, more profound.

Hermione realised for the first time that, though she may know Cedric as a friend, there was a whole other side to him that she'd never encountered before. It was brighter, more vivid. Not that Cedric had ever been dull. It wasn't as though he'd been obviously lacking a spark of vitality. But this extra level… it was something that apparently only Salomé could invoke.

"I'll be more than prepared to take responsibility for your attendance, Salomé," Cedric assured her. "I told you that. We've agreed that when he asks –"

"Don't be ridiculous, Cedric," Salomé interrupted, turning her head more fully towards him. She raised a silencing hand when he made to continue. Surprisingly, Cedric was immediately muted by the gesture. "We agreed on this _,_ Cedric. Cease this persistence. It is unbecoming."

The two of them stared at one another, Cedric down at Salomé's hooded expression and upturned chin. And Hermione could only watch them in fascination. Just like everybody else in the room, she was floored by an entirely knew surprise. Salomé and Cedric were simply so… together, they were… natural may not have been the right word for it. And there was not the casualness of long-time friends or lovers; Hermione doubted that Salomé at least would be anything but largely disdainful should they happen to touch, and that Cedric, in his strange sort of idolisation, wouldn't dare. But there was definitely something there. Something that softened Salomé's eyes slightly just as it lit a novel spark in Cedric.

It was Remus that managed to shake himself from his surprise first this time. Sinking into his seat alongside Mrs Weasley, he propped his elbows onto his knees and leant towards Salomé. "By 'he', I assume that you refer to Riddle?" He frowned, concerned. "Will there be a problem with you coming to see us, Salomé?"

His words broke the stare of non-verbal communication between Salomé and Cedric. Salomé turned towards Remus and, though her expression didn't quite hold the touch of softness it did when she looked upon Cedric, it was far from the almost cruelly hard façade Hermione had witnessed last time she'd seen her. Salomé cocked her head slightly. "No, Remus, there will not be. Not anymore. Simply that, should we tarry too long, then he may begin to wonder as to my whereabouts."

"He doesn't know where you are?" Sirius asked with a touch of a frown.

"Of course not," Salomé replied with a faint snort that still somehow managed to be elegant. "I highly doubt His Majesty would take kindly to my fraternising with his enemy."

Her words would have sounded genuine, even derogatory, had that slight not-quite-softness remained. Hermione another upwelling of joy fill her, something she hadn't anticipated when considering the circumstances. Salomé may be different from Harry, but there, that slight glimpse beneath her hard shell, suggested that she was more than the Dark witch she pretended to be. Hermione threw a small smile towards Ron, who for his part continued to appear wary and, if nothing else, confused.

 _At least he isn't angry_ , she thought. Ron had expressed nothing but resentment that thinly veiled his mournfulness towards any mention of Salomé since the revelation, unless he was seemingly paradoxically defending her against her accusers. Now he like the rest of them simply stared.

And in the aftermath of Remus' words they all continued to stare. Once more Hermione became aware of the silence, of the way that Salomé turned her gaze upon them all with cool regard. No, awkward didn't begin to cover it.

After nearly a solid minute of static hush, it was Salomé who broke it. With a sigh that sounded almost too casual and commonplace to pass her lips, she arched an eyebrow "Not that I don't enjoy being the subject of intense and disagreeable scrutiny, but perhaps we should truncate this waiting period. As I said, given the shortness of our time together, I believe that to continue with such for much longer would render our meet moot."

Silence. Silence stretched for exactly three and a half seconds; Hermione counted. Three and a half seconds where the rest of the room's occupants exchanged flickering glances, where Hermione met Ginny's eye and Ron's knee touched her own slightly.

Then everyone spoke at once.

"You have no idea how good it is to see you again, Salomé."

"Bloody hell, you really are him, aren't you? That's twenty pounds Finnegan owes the both of us, George."

"Thank you so much for joining us here today, Salomé, it's really –"

"- don't think I ever would have guessed had I not –"

"- really are a girl, aren't you? You're really –"

"Are you sure it's safe for you to be here –?"

"- can't _imagine_ how difficult it must have been to escape Riddle's notice. Have you -?"

"Did you –?"

"How can -?"

"Is it really -?'

"Why -?"

"Where -?"

'Enough!"

Mrs Weasley's words were a whip-crack as resounding as a _Silencio_. As one, all eyes, Salomé's included, turned towards her.

Mrs Weasley was a force to be reckoned with. She breathed equal amounts of terror and love into her children, and almost as much into just about everyone else in her immediate vicinity. She was the shortest in the room by a significant margin, with Hermione the closest in measure and she still a good inch taller, and yet having risen from her seat to plant her hands upon both hips, lips pursed and eyes daring any to challenge her order, she was by and large the principle dictator of the room. She barely had to skim a sweeping glare around the ring of now fully occupied chairs until all, even Remus and Sirius, had dropped their chins abashedly.

After brief pause to discern that they were all suitably cowed, Mrs Weasley turned her full attention onto Salomé. The smile she directed towards her was kindly, if a little nervous. Hermione thought it to be perhaps the first time she had ever seen Mrs Weasley as such. "Now that order is settled, perhaps we can begin anew," she said. "Salomé, are -? No, I'm sorry, what would you like us to call you? I know you go by Salomé Belaire these days, but to us… if you would rather be H-Harry…?"

The nervousness in her tone hitched slightly, but Mrs Weasley's jaw remained firm, her shoulders set. Hermione found herself waiting with baited breath for the reply, her eyes trained upon Salomé.

Salomé regarded Mrs Weasley with those hooded, contemplative eyes. Her head cocked just slightly like an inquisitive parrot, and the fingers folded in her lap tapped thoughtfully against one another. When she spoke again, it was a testament to the soothing power of Mrs Weasley that she sounded almost mellow, almost friendly, especially considering her words. "I believe, Mrs Weasley, that given the circumstances and my own person situation, the former would be the more appropriate term of address. I am, and have been for some time now, Salomé." She paused and the corner of her lips twitched slightly. "In case you hadn't noticed."

George – or possibly Fred – chuckled under his breath, an utterance almost immediately accompanied by that of his twin. They somehow managed to ignore their mother's swivelling glare as the first broke his silence. "Yeah, we had noticed that."

"It's sort of hard to miss."

"What with the whole dress –"

"And the hair –"

"And what the dress very nicely exhibits –"

"Fred and George Weasley, you will stop such disgusting insinuations at once," Mrs Weasley cut in before. Her scowl was intensified, almost terrifying to witness, but Hermione was suddenly very glad that Mrs Weasley had said something. Sirius appeared to have semi-shifted into his Animagus for with the twins' words. Or at least, that's the impression she was left with for the severity of his snarl.

"Sorry, Mum."

"We just figured stating the obvious would cut out some of the 'redundancy' of our meeting."

"Only trying to help."

"Sorry if we offended, Salomé."

Before Mrs Weasley could jump upon her sons' backs once more, Salomé replied cordially. "There is no need for apologies. The fact that you've barely stopped looking at my chest since I entered the room, Fred, is one of the primary reasons I wear a dress at all."

George snorted in laughter. "She's got you there, mate," he said, jostling his twin with an elbow.

"How do you know I'm Fred?" That which was clearly Fred asked with a sharp rise of his eyebrows.

"Wait, so you do that on purpose?" Ron spoke up for the first time, his tone incredulous. "You _want_ blokes ogling your… your…"

"For god's sake, they're called breasts, Ron," Ginny sighed. She rolled her eyes towards Salomé, whose lips twitched slightly once more. Ron's face flushed a bright shade of red, and Hermione felt her horror surpassed only by amusement.

"Ginevra Weasley, you are as terrible as your brothers," Mrs Weasley scolded, her tone severe.

"Yet notice she doesn't actually tell her to apologise," George murmured to Fred, who nodded fervently. Mrs Weasley spun back towards them and likely would have begun a tirade had Remus not cut in.

"I believe that your prior statement stands, Salomé. And I don't think this sort of arguing is going to help us any, nor make this meeting any less redundant."

"Quite right, Remus," Salomé nodded. And just like that, as she immediately shifted her attention from everyone but Remus, the focus of all of the rest of the room followed suit. "Perhaps we could begin? I believe there were specifics you wished to discuss, questions to ask? Such was the purpose of this meet, was it not?" She arched an eyebrow towards him. "If you had something in particular…?"

Remus smiled tightly. "I think that would be best."

Sirius turned a narrow-eyed regard upon his friend. "Remember what we talked about, Remus."

"I remember, Sirius."

"Nothing too intrusive –"

"I know."

" – and we're not talking about the war, not today –"

"I remember, Sirius."

"- and if Salomé has _any_ objections to _anything_ you ask –"

"Sirius, I _know_." Remus shook his head, as amused as he was exasperated. Hermione suppressed her own amusement with a bite into her lip, noticed that just about everyone was in a similar state. Even Salomé, she noticed with surprise. And even more surprising, she realised that she actually readily recognised it. Was it just more apparent or was she just beginning to get better at reading her?

Sirius settled himself back into his seat, slumping slightly and folding his arms across his chest. Mrs Weasley took her cue to return to her own seat. "Well, just so you know."

"You leave me breathless in anticipation, Remus," Salomé said after a moment's pause. "Pray tell, what is it that you so desire to ask me that required such a covert meeting? You perhaps have some sort of request?"

Remus gave a small, sad smile. It was Mr Weasley, however, who answered, speaking up for the first time. His smile was wavering, slightly strained. "Request's are the furthest thing from all of our minds, Salomé. We would never do that to you." To Hermione, it sounded like he emphasised the hidden meaning in his words, the slight touch to the 'we', and even more so for the pointed glance he cast towards Cedric.

Salomé's returning smile quirked once more. It was strange, that almost amicable persona. So different to that Hermione had seen on both instances she'd confronted her before. "This certainly sounds intriguing. What is it that you wish to ask, then?"

Mrs Weasley took over for her husband. Her motherly smile was adopted once more. "Only one thing, really. We just want to make sure you're alright."

The silence that followed was led by Salomé this time. Her smile faded and an unreadably blank expression took its place. "What…? I beg your pardon?"

"We wanted to make sure you were –"

"I heard you." Salomé frowned. "Why would you ask me that?"

A frown touched Mrs Weasley's forehead as she exchanged a confused glance with her husband. The confusion shifted back towards Salomé an instant later. "Why? Because we care for you."

"No, you do not."

"Yes, Salomé, we do –"

"You care for Harry Potter, not for me." Surprisingly, there was no heat in Salomé's words. Hermione thought she sounded more confused, curious, than anything.

"Are they not the same person?" Remus asked.

Hermione could have answered that, especially considering her previous conversation with Salomé. She didn't have to, though. "No, Remus, we are not. As I have told Hermione, Ron and Ginny," she nodded towards the three respectively, "I am my own person."

"But your _were_ –" Mrs Weasley began.

"'Were' being the operative word, Molly," Sirius interrupted. His tone was chiding and just short of irate. "As she says, Salomé is herself."

"Yes, I understand that," Mrs Weasley blustered, obviously irritated herself. Hermione knew she had never gotten along well with Sirius, and the animosity of their relationship was making itself known. "But what we mean is –"

"Mrs Weasley, if you would, I believe that the direction your adamant attentions will take us will only deteriorate the situation."

At Cedric's words, Mrs Weasley stuttered to a halt. Hermione immediately felt herself grow tense and cast her gaze warily towards him. He didn't appear angry, however, nor even frustrated as he had in the few confrontations she'd had with him over the months. He seemed almost mellow, any volatility toned down slightly, just like Salomé's was.

 _How odd,_ Hermione pondered, frowning thoughtfully. _Or more, how intriguing… that is very telling, that they both –_

"You're right." Remus' voice broke into her thoughts. "You're right, Cedric. And as are you, Salomé. We don't wish to push you into an uncomfortable situation."

"I hardly find it discomforting," Salomé replied with remarkable gentleness. For her, anyway. There was still a slightly mocking edge to her tone, but it wasn't quite malicious. Or at least Hermione didn't think it was. "I was under the impression that rigorous verbal drilling was to occur in all likelihood this evening. I am not entirely oblivious."

"Rigorous drilling?" Mr Weasley asked, and immediately looked embarrassed for speaking with such naivety. Even more so when Salomé turned her attention towards him with a slight smirk.

"That's not going to happen," Sirius said with a frown. "We decided –"

"Yes, Sirius, we are all aware of your guidelines," Remus sighed. His small smile turned once more upon Salomé. "But he's right, Salomé. As is Mrs Weasley. The main reason we wished to see you was simply to ensure your wellbeing."

"And for what purpose?"

"What?"

"Why would you like to know?"

Remus looked a little sad for a moment. "You really can't fathom that we would care for you, even being changed as you are?"

For a moment, Hermione was sure that Salomé with rear up and threaten to strike aggressively for the mournfulness of Remus' words. There was a brief flicker of heat that sparked in her eyes and the coolness she had been periodically exhibiting since she arrived arose once more. But then it stopped; Salomé's flash of cold anger died down into a shadow and it took Hermione a moment to realise that Cedric had briefly touched her elbow.

How very interesting indeed.

Hermione was speaking before she realised it. She didn't know why, but she felt like she had to before Salomé did, for although the heat had died, she sensed that the mellowness, the amicability, had died with it. "I myself was curious, Salomé. Ever since we last talked, there's been so much I wanted to ask you."

Salomé turned her attention towards her. Her eyebrow twitched in a tell tale sign of surprise, so slight that if Hermione hadn't been keenly observing for any indication she may not have noticed it. "Other than those questions regarding my wellbeing? Which is," Salomé paused, glanced pointedly towards Remus, and Mr and Mrs Weasley, "perfectly satisfactory, thank you."

Hermione nodded. She didn't know exactly where she wanted to start with her questions, but her tongue took over for her and spoke instead. "Please tell me if I sound rude or intrusive or anything, but so many things about our last conversation have left me curious."

"How courteous of you, Hermione. I'll bear that in mind."

That faint smile was back now, and Hermione felt herself almost gasp in relief. To either side of her she felt Ron and Ginny similarly ease slightly. Ron nudged her with his knee in what she assumed to be gratitude, or perhaps encouragement. Either way, it gave her enough courage to continue. She had never been particularly fond of the spotlight despite her tendency to speak out in class, but right now everyone else in the room seemed to cede the metaphorical microphone to her.

Swallowing, Hermione strove for composure. "Well, there is… there is just so much. Everything, from the magic you performed at the Coming of Age ceremony to your metamorphosis." She ignored the faint cringes of those around her as Salomé didn't seemed perturbed by the question in the slightest. "I'm just – I was very curious. Can you explain it to me?"

"That's quite a question," Salomé said. Thankfully, she still didn't seem particularly perturbed. "Or a number of questions really. And if I were to do them justice, it would take quite a reply."

"Would you?" Hermione asked, surprised. "You'd actually… you'd actually tell me?"

That eyebrow arched so impressively Hermione could have sworn Salomé must have practiced in the mirror. "Hermione, tell me you didn't ask a question without expecting an answer." Her words were chiding but also teasing. Almost… no, not quite kind, but certainly not cruel.

Hermione felt herself flush slightly. "I didn't doubt you, exactly. Only that you'd be well within your right to refuse to answer."

"Wait, so we can ask questions?" Ginny chirped, sitting up slightly in her seat. She turned with something akin to excitement towards Salomé. "Can we?"

Salomé turned her raised eyebrow towards the youngest Weasley. "Were you given restrictions other than Sirius' guidelines?" She asked with an amused emphasis on 'guidelines'.

"No," Ginny replied, but her eyes drifted accusingly to Sirius. Hermione couldn't blame her for the accusation; Sirius' restrictions had indeed been profound. It was likely that as much as anything else that had put everyone else on edge that day, though no one would dare say it. "I was only wondering."

"By all means, if you feel inclined."

A slow smile spread across Ginny's face. "Alright then. I was wondering how it felt being a girl."

"Don't you already know?" Ron frowned accusingly at his sister.

"Well yes, but I was _wondering_. Salomé was a boy before, after all."

"Ginny!" Mrs Weasley exclaimed, horrified. Ginny only grinned at her mother, remorseless as ever.

"It's alright, Mrs Weasley. I honestly have little modesty for my personal changes. It's true, after all." Salomé shrugged as if she truly didn't care. Hermione took a moment to mentally shake herself at the vast yet still somehow almost unnoticeable difference between Salomé _now_ and the woman she'd met before. 'Nice' might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but she was definitely less unkind.

"That would be something to hear," one of the twins agreed. "I've considered trying a temporary Transgender Potion before."

"You have not," his brother replied.

"Well, I am now."

"Are you safe within the Riddle Manor?" Remus asked, perhaps intentionally interrupting the potential for ensuing banter.

"That's what I'm wondering," Sirius agreed, nodding fervently. "This Riddle bastard. I'll kill him if he mistreats you."

"We are all concerned for your wellbeing," Mr Weasley said, repeating his earlier statement. "It is, of course, our primary concern."

Hermione felt a twinge of guilt at the nature of her own question, so disregarding of Mr Weasley's words. Her shame was immediately quelled by Ron's question however.

"Yeah, that. And where you've been."

"Don't be daft, Ron, you know where –"

"I mean," Ron interrupted his sister's dismissive words. "Where have you been? Away from us? Why haven't we seen you, or heard of you? Why didn't you tell us who you were? That's what I want to know."

An awkward pause spread about the room from everyone, Hermione included. She couldn't deny, however, that she was curious herself. It was just that… Salomé obviously had her reasons, and either they were too painful for her to convey, or at the other end of the spectrum they would most likely be hurtful to Hermione and her friends instead. Yet now that the question was voiced, it seemed vitally important that it was answered.

Evidently everyone else thought so too, for no one, not even the twins, spoke a word after Ron's declaration. Salomé, for all her almost-good humour, stared at Ron silently. Her face became blank, schooled, but Hermione was given the distinct impression that there was a whirlwind swirling beneath the tranquil surface that was carefully held under wraps.

It was Cedric who replied, speaking up for the first time in minutes. His tone had chilled to such a degree that Hermione struggled to suppress a shiver. "Ron, I hope you're not assuming that Salomé had a choice in the matter."

Ron's face flushed slightly. "You _know_ that's not what I meant, Cedric."

"Really? Because you're sounding very accusatory."

"I was only wondering –"

"With preconceived misconceptions."

"Don't put words into my mouth, Cedric."

"I wasn't," Cedric replied coolly. "I would never presume to know what was truly driving your thoughts and actions. Just as I'm sure you would never presume to do so for Salomé."

The flush in Ron's face changed a very noticeable shade from embarrassment into anger. Before he could speak, however, he was interrupted.

"That's enough, Cedric."

Salomé's voice was similarly chilled, yet in an entirely different fashion to Cedric's. While Cedric's elicited a shiver, Salomé seemed to freeze all listeners in place. Hermione watched, enraptured as once more Salomé and Cedric seemed to completely exclude everyone from their surroundings to glance towards one another. There was a moment of silent communication, both staring at one another in rigid immobility. Something was obviously said, some unspoken conclusion reached, for barely a minute later Cedric bowed his head in a subsiding nod and settled back into his seat.

Salomé watched him for a moment longer before turning back towards Ron. "You're entitled to your question, Ron. Given your fondness of friends and family, I would have anticipated as much for one who used to be so close to you." Hermione felt a spear of sadness and regret strike through her at the use of the past tense, felt a flinch in Ron at her side. She wondered if his reaction was for the same reason as her own. "And to answer would be quite simple. At first, I was unable to. Riddle restricted my every movement. I was bound to solitude for much of my first months, and quite literally bound when not."

A slight, muted sound drew Hermione's eyes to Sirius. He'd tensed severely, face paled and jaw so tight it must have been painful. He seemed to be struggling to retain his seat for the upwelling of furious emotion within him. A brief glance at the rest of them in the room, even Ron, showed a similar paleness, a similar uneasiness.

Salomé continued as though she hadn't noticed. Or perhaps she simply didn't care, for though she was responding cordially enough Hermione didn't think for a moment that she was entirely comfortable or happy with the situation. She couldn't be. "And after that… well, my priorities changed. I confess I have become quite driven in reaching my ultimate destination. To embroil those from my past, those that need not be so compromised and involved? It would be unnecessary."

"You didn't want to endanger us?" Remus asked. "Salomé, you should have more consideration for your own situation. We could have helped you. Such a sacrifice –"

"It was not a sacrifice, Remus, I can assure you," Salomé interrupted him. Her expression became faintly rueful. "I confess that I have become somewhat incapable of working alongside others. It was as much for understanding myself most efficient working solitarily as much as any other reason that I did not seek assistance."

Another nudge of discontent jabbed at Hermione, but it was more of indignation this time. She frowned, pressing her lips together. Salomé felt they couldn't have been of help? That was rather rude, wasn't it?

Before she could speak, however, Sirius uttered an explosive snort of laughter. It was a little resentful, but he also seemed genuinely amused. "Well, you certainly have done well for yourself so far."

Salomé nodded obligingly. "Thank you, Sirius. You recognition is gratifying."

Sirius barked another laugh. Shaking his head, he shifted to lean forwards in his seat, dropping his elbows onto his knees. "Right, well, that was a bit…" He shook his head like a dog ridding itself of water. When he glanced up again it was to flash Salomé a crooked smile that she returned with a sceptical expression. "I think that should we aim at continuing this Q and A I might partake of some whisky. Or at least a very strong tea."

"Those two are at rather the opposite ends of the beverage spectrum, Sirius," Remus said with a weary smile.

"And you most certainly will not be having whiskey at this time of day," Mrs Weasley chided. She looked ready to leap onto her feet once more to forcibly stop his should such a response prove necessary.

Sirius ignored them both, keeping his attention locked upon Salomé. "Tea, Salomé?"

Dipping her head in a single nod, Salomé murmured in quiet thanks. "Earl Grey would be appreciated."

"Milk and sugar?"

"Two spoons, please."

Hermione suddenly felt herself smile at the words. There, that was another piece of Harry that she hadn't anticipated, had even forgotten about; when he was younger, the Dursleys had apparently never allowed Harry to partake of sugar, so coming to Hogwarts and having as much as he'd wanted had always been a habit of his. Salomé evidently still had such a sweet tooth. Hermione's good humour was smothered a moment later, however, when Sirius sat back in his seat to utter an overloud "Kreacher!"

S.P.E.W had been something of a lost cause since its brief birthing in Hermione's fourth year. She still felt as passionate towards that cause as ever but things changed. Priorities changed, she thought, unconsciously echoing Salomé's words. The war took precedence, and even had it not, the loss of her friend and the reality that was enforced by such a loss had dwindled her proactivity in the name of non-human creatures. She had her own rights to stand for these days.

That did not mean that Hermione didn't strive to ensure that house elves were treated with respect and the gratitude they deserved. That afforded respect included such directed towards Kreacher, even if he so blatantly refused to accept her attempts. He barely even spoke around her, let alone to her.

As such, when he cracked into presence a bare moment after Sirius called him, Hermione was unsurprised to see him edge a good three steps away from her upon catching sight of her. The ancient little house elf, half-bowed beneath the weight of his years and more a pile of toothpicks in a pillowcase than anything, only ever offered her a glare for her efforts. Hermione tried not to feel too put out by the fact; she'd had many years of exposure to such distaste and even if she couldn't quite withhold her sadness at the aversion she could hide it well enough.

Sirius, much to Hermione's disgruntlement, treated Kreacher much the same as he always did, no different for Salomé's presence. As soon as the house elf arrived he was ordering him into action with a pointed look and a wave of his hand. "Kreacher. Tea and biscuits. Bring the milk and sugar along with you; I don't want you fumbling around with it more than necessary."

Kreacher, his eyes squinting and head bowed, mumbled something unintelligible and likely objectionable beneath his breath before answering in his grumbling voice. "Master has not the biscuit to provide for his guests. Master has only scones."

Sirius huffed his frustration as though his life's endeavour had been thwarted rather than choice of snacks diverted. "Well, make some up, then. It's your job to provide, isn't it? I'm sure you're not so incapable you can't make up a quick batch of gingernut biscuits."

Before Hermione voice her own objections, that there really wasn't such a problem with scones rather than biscuits, Salomé was speaking. Her tone carried a hint of humour but also a tinge of something that sounded almost reprimanding. "Sirius, it is not to worry. Biscuits are hardly a necessary accompaniment for afternoon tea." She turned a surprisingly soft gaze onto Kreacher that left Hermione's speechless and eyes wide.

Sirius opened his mouth to reply, but he didn't get the chance. No one would have had the chance, for as soon as Salomé opened her mouth she was the centre of the room's attention. More importantly, she became the centre of Kreacher's attention. He turned his squinting, peering eyes upon her as though he had not even registered her presence in the room. When he did, it was for his eyes to stretch wider than Hermione had ever seen then.

Then he seemed to transform into a different elf entirely. Hermione was left floored, staring stunned as Kreacher fell onto his knees, quivering in bodily trembles and a glimmer of tears swirling into his eyes that quickly fell free and tumbled down his cheeks. He raised his hands almost imploringly towards Salomé and for a moment Hermione was horrified. That Kreacher would be so terrified, so distraught at the mere presence of the young 'Dark' witch was –

"Mistress Salomé! Oh, Mistress, you is here, in Kreacher's house!" He blubbered in an astounding display of drooling hysteria. "Kreacher is so happy, Kreacher is being so happy that Mistress is here. Anything that Kreacher can be getting for Mistress is certainly being provided. Anything, Mistress, anything at all."

Stunned silence was certainly the favoured response of the afternoon. Like a stage show, all players in the room froze in surprise before slowly turning their communal attention towards Salomé. Then Kreacher. Then Salomé again. Hermione found herself just as stunned as everyone else; more than that, she felt as though her eyes were nearly set to erupt from her skull. The only one who didn't seem stunned was Cedric, who seemed nothing if not torn between bafflement and amusement by the display. Well, he and Salomé, who wore exasperation like a comfortable robe. Her mouth opened as though to speak but she refrained, likely due to the continued professions of Kreacher.

What… was that all about?

"Kreacher," Sirius said with slow deliberation, finally shaking off his surprise long enough to speak. The house elf barely spared him half a glance before turning his glistening, adoring stare upon Salomé once more. "What in Merlin's name are you doing?"

For whatever reason, Sirius' words actually seemed to shake Kreacher from his stupor. With visible effort, he shook his head like a dog ridding itself of water, and clambered waveringly to his feet. Sniffling at the snot dripping from his long, hooked nose, he half turned towards Sirius and bowed his head towards him. He actually bowed. Hermione was stunned all over again.

"Yes, Master Sirius. Of course, Kreacher will be getting the tea and biscuits. Right away, Master, right away." And without another word, with a crack like ripping paper, he disappeared.

Hermione found her voice an instant later but only managed a stutter of sound before Ginny overrode her. "What the bloody hell was that all about?"

"Ginny, language," Mrs Weasley scolded, but there was little force to her words. She seemed in a state of wary confusion, one that was mirrored to a more baffled degree by her husband at her side. Everyone without exception knew of Kreacher disinclination towards following directions, and in general any sense of affability at all. It wasn't worth commenting on except for the fact that Hermione had never seen him act anything but. She may be a non-human persons activist, but even Hermione had to admit that he was one of the most disagreeable kind there was. It was because of such acknowledgement that his reaction to Salomé was so strange and unexpected.

Salomé's lips twitched slightly in the beginnings of a smile, though she didn't quite let it spread. "To what expressly are you referring?"

There was a general upwelling of exasperated grumbles, mostly from the Weasley children, before Fred – or perhaps George – answered her. "The fact that Kreacher didn't hate on you the second he saw you."

"Or that he actually seems to like you," his brother continued.

"Quite like you actually."

"It's insane."

"Weird."

"Bonkers."

"Kreacher's a right pain in the arse. You usually can't get a sane word out of him," Ron added. He received a glare from his mother that had him ducking his head sheepishly.

"Maybe it's just that no one's quite known the right approach," Cedric murmured just loud enough to be heard. Not that Hermione considered most in the room actually listened to him. She felt her affront arise once more; not the right approach? Hermione was _always_ kind to the house elf. What better approach could there be?

"It's hardly anything to comment upon," Salomé said with a disregarding shrug. "We've merely corresponded before. Perhaps I left a favourable impression?"

"That in itself is strange," Remus said, his expression considering. "You corresponded with him? You, without his master's permission? And he heeded you?"

"You talked to him but not me?" Sirius added. He sounded as though the prospect physically pained him.

"It was hardly by choice," Salomé admitted. For it was admittance. She sounded reluctant to speak if anything. "Happenstance-driven rather than deliberate intention."

"What do you mean?" Sirius asked.

Salomé opened her mouth to reply but stopped short. It wasn't until that moment that Hermione truly realised how amiable she'd been that afternoon. How uncharacteristically amiable, as though she was forcibly making herself such. Within a period of but a few seconds, however, that friendliness dissipated and the young woman who had been at the Coming-Of-Age ceremony, who had told her story in the cosy room of the twin's lounge suite with such detached tones, took her place. Her back straightened infinitesimally, chin rising slightly and shoulders dropped loosely in an extension of her casually resting arms and hands curled in her lap. Her face, the sharp, perfect planes of her features, hardened to marble-like quality, eyes flattening and becoming hooded. There was not even the faintest trace of a smile remaining upon her lips. It was horrifying to witness, like a sun-kissed scene of joviality abruptly becoming shadowed by storm clouds, Salomé darkened. Her guise became ice cold.

"What is this?" She all but hissed.

Hermione exchanged a wary, confused sidelong glance with Ron. His guarded expression mirrored her own feelings exactly. What did she -?

"Sirius. What is this?" Cedric repeated her words just as sharply. Hermione, focused as she had been on Salomé, hadn't noticed his own change, and yet turning towards him, startled by the accusation in his tone, she couldn't miss it. If Salomé was the epitome of a witch's traditional cold demeanour than Cedric was certainly her wizardly counterpart. His own face had hardened, the line of his jaw almost quivering with tension, and his eyes had darkened and narrowed almost to slits. Hermione guiltily thanked whatever had driven the situation that caused such accusation to be directed towards Sirius rather than herself.

For his part, Sirius seemed to be growing in anger too. Growing, and growing. He spared a glance for Salomé, met Cedric's piercing stare, and abruptly rose to his feet. "It is not my doing. I swear."

"What is it? What's wrong?" Ginny asked. She sounded almost scared for her wariness, her eyes flickering between the other occupants of the room, darting from face to face. No one answered immediately, however, as Hermione followed Ginny's example, she saw a darkening of faces in just about everyone in the room. Everyone as they, Salomé and Cedric included, rose to their feet. In a static ring they seemed to fall into a stance of readiness. Only she, Ron, Ginny and the twins remained seated. Everyone else appeared as though they were winding themselves into a state of hardness, of anger, even. Sirius wasn't the only one who appeared bordering on enraged.

"Someone," Mr Weasley spoke up, finally answering Ginny's question, "is here."

"I don't believe it takes much of a stretch of the imagination to discern whom," Remus added. He too appeared almost angry, a strange, unfamiliar expression for his face.

"I did think they had a right," Mrs Weasley murmured. She bit her lip a moment later as all eyes turned sharply towards her. Even Mr Weasley appeared accusing. "It was not me. I didn't tell him what was happening."

"Will someone please tell us what's going on?" One of the twins spoke up, frustration and nervousness thick in his tone. Hermione didn't blame him; she could feel her own nerves jangling. Something was wrong. _Very_ wrong if it could drive Cedric and Salomé into what appeared to be nearing flight mode from their mutual tension, eliciting such anger from Sirius and disgruntlement from the rest of the older witches and wizards.

Mrs Weasley huffed, shifting in something of a stamp of feet as she turned towards them. "You should really have your own Detection Charms in place, boys." She paused, glancing towards Hermione, Ron and Ginny. "All of you should."

"I think that our meeting has been discovered," Mr Weasley said with a sharp sigh. He was never one to scold before clearing up the situation.

"That didn't take long," Cedric murmured. His tone had lost its tangible accusation, but nonetheless Hermione still heard it. As though the 'discoverers' arrival were very much the fault of his hosts.

And finally it clicked. Hermione's eyes widened as understanding took hold. Oh. Oh, that was not good. It really didn't take much of a leap of the imagination to know exactly who was the most likely to arrive. At first Hermione almost feared it was a contingent of Dark magicals, but Dark invaders wouldn't have provoked quite the vexation, the anger, the disgruntlement, that certain other individuals would. "Is it… the Order?"

She could feel the eyes of her friends turn towards her, but Hermione kept her attention upon Remus. He out of all of them in the room was the most level-headed in such situations. Expectedly, it was he who replied. "I believe it is, yes."

"Would Dumbledore…?" Mrs Weasley began.

"Of course it would be Dumbledore." Sirius folded his arms across his chest, clicking his tongue in vexation. "And probably Moody too. Typical, that they'd come."

"You didn't have Privacy Charms installed?" Cedric asked. Once more he sounded more curious, stoically resigned even, than accusing.

"I did," Sirius muttered, though his tone left Hermione doubtful.

Mr Weasley sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He similarly seemed more resigned than anything else himself. When he turned sad eyes towards Salomé, they were visibly apologetic. "Perhaps it would be best if you left immediately."

"Yes, that would probably be best," Remus agreed.

But Cedric shook his head. "Best or not, it might not be feasible."

Sirius frowned, dropping his folded arms from his chest. "What? What do you mean? If you leave now, you could avoid –"

"Avoidance is a tactic that has become somewhat impossible," Salomé interrupted smoothly. "Dumbledore, or perhaps Moody, have already placed Containment Charms upon the house."

"Anti-Apparation wards?" Cedric asked.

"Most definitely," Salomé nodded. "And then some."

"Dumbledore? You know for certain it's Dumbledore?" Sirius affixed Salomé with his stare. "How?"

"Riddle has had me become more than familiar with his primary foe's magical signature. He has Memory Records," Salomé replied coolly.

"And Moody?"

"His too."

A nervous hush settled upon the older magicals in the room. Mrs Weasley's whisper of, "How terrifying," seemed entirely accurate for the situation.

Sirius gave an audible swallow. "So no escape there?"

"No," Salomé agreed with a shake of her head. "If Cedric and I are to leave, it will certainly be with their awareness."

"Then perhaps it would be better to simply avoid covert operations and dive straight in?" Cedric asked. He eyes and attention were directed solely upon Salomé. It was an attentiveness that Hermione found herself becoming rapidly familiar with since they'd arrived.

"Wait," Ron said, starting to his feet. Hermione felt herself drawn to standing beside him, Ginny in tandem. "You can't leave already. You haven't answered any of our questions yet."

"Ron, stop this foolishness," Mrs Weasley scolded. "It is for the best."

"We don't know what Dumbledore might do," one of the twins, surprisingly, chimed in.

"Or more correctly what Moody might do," the other added.

His brother nodded fervently. "He did seem the more blood-thirsty of the two."

"They are _not_ bloodthirsty," Mrs Weasley announced fiercely. "They are _not_."

"Regardless," Remus broke into the potentially rising argument. "I think it for the best. Salomé, perhaps… with our accompaniment…?"

Salomé, who had already begun a slow, deliberate, yet strangely overlooked drift towards the door, glanced over her shoulder towards Remus. She regarded him flatly for a moment before with equal slowness she dipped her chin in a nod. "I agree that such an approach would be for the best."

"You can't stay? Just for a little longer?" Ginny sounded almost pleading, her drawn expression only adding to the effect.

Surprisingly, it was Cedric who spoke up in reassurance. Or perhaps unsurprisingly; Cedric had always had a soft spot for Ginny. "It might prove dangerous to be caught except in the process of leaving," he said.

"If nothing else, I believe that the opportunity to partake of excessive questioning might be abused," Remus rationalised. He cast a small smile towards Salomé. "Or what was it? 'Vigorous verbal drilling'?"

It was a testament to the gravity of the situation, and Salomé's discontent, that she didn't bat an eyelid at the attempted light-heartedness. Her stoicism seemed to double the resurfacing tension in the room. Remus cleared his throat. "Then if you would?" With an upraised arm he gestured towards the door.

Inclining her head, Salomé swept from the room. Like her shadow, Cedric followed directly after her, dark robes billowing slightly with his passage. Sirius followed right behind, then Remus, then Mr Weasley.

Hermione was moving before she realised it, though whether by her own inclination of the physical prompting of Ron's similar break to follow she didn't know. She found herself rushing to follow through the door to the accompaniment of the Weasley children.

Only to find Mrs Weasley barring their way. The short, plump woman stationed herself in the doorway like a warden, arms dropping to prop upon her hips. She affixed them all, Hermione included, with a hard stare. "No. You will stay here."

"What?!" The Weasley's communally exclaimed in a mixture of anger and plea.

Mrs Weasley shook her head. "This situation doesn't need an audience. You'll only make things worse."

"Bloody hell, Mum, we're not kids anymore," Ron complained.

"We won't interrupt," one of the twins added.

"We'll be the moral support," the other said.

"Or more correctly the physical support," Ginny grumbled. She dropped her own hands to her hips in a mirror of her mother. "This is Moody we're talking about. You know how he's been about Salomé. We don't know what he'll do –"

"You stop that right this instant, Ginny," Mrs Weasley snapped. Her voice was a whip-crack of ferocity, her eyes narrowed and lips thin with anger. "You will _not_ accuse him of unwarranted violence."

"Mum," Ron began, but only succeeded in redirecting her fiery gaze towards him instead. Hermione actually felt sympathetic towards him; she'd only infrequently been the subject of such a gaze in the past but those few instances she had were enough to discourage her from seeking to become its focus once more.

"That is enough. From all of you." Mrs Weasley swept her hard gaze across their small group, including Hermione in her scan once more. "You will remain up here and allow that young woman to handle this in her own way. We will support her, not ogle their confrontation as though it was a street performance."

"We wouldn't 'ogle'," one of the twins said.

"Much," the other corrected. He ducked his head at the sharpening of Mrs Weasley's stare upon him.

"We are adults, Mum," Ginny reattempted. "We have just as much right to be there –"

"You do not," Mrs Weasley overrode her daughter once more. Hermione flinched at the sharpness of her words. "No one has the right to be there unless your presence is requested."

"Mrs Weasley," Hermione finally spoke up. Even to herself she sounded imploring, her voice subdued. "We just want to be there to support her. We don't know what will happen, so I – _we_ just thought it might be better if…"

Surprisingly, when Mrs Weasley directed her attention towards Hermione it was with an almost kindly expression. She sighed, deflating slightly. "I know, Hermione. I know you do. Believe me, I don't discourage your presence merely to be cruel."

"Discourage?" One of the twins muttered behind Hermione, but he was quiet enough to be easily ignored.

"But Salomé has not directly requested you assistance, so we will leave it be," Mrs Weasley finished.

"She hasn't requested yours either," Ginny pointed out. "Or Dad's, or Remus' or Sirius'. Why do you get to be there?"

Mrs Weasley's lips thinned further. She paused for a moment and Hermione abruptly became aware of how much time had passed since the rest of the room's occupants had left the room. When Mrs Weasley finally spoke, it was with deliberate slowness, following deep breath that gave the impression of striving for calm. "We will accompany Salomé and Cedric until requested otherwise. If our presence is requested to be replaced by absence, then we will make ourselves scarce."

"Then why can't we –?" Ginny began. But, like clockwork, Mrs Weasley overrode her once more.

"Ginny, I don't have the time or patience for this anymore. Enough." With a raised finger, shaking it firmly, Mrs Weasley once more affixed them each with a hard stare. "You will stay here. All of you. Your father or I will tell you what happens afterwards but you will _all_ remain her." She paused, lips pursing slightly. "You _will._ "

"Yes, Mum," the Weasley's droned dejectedly, heads bowing. Hermione added her own, "Yes, Mrs Weasley," which seemed to satisfy her for Mrs Weasley gave a curt nod before turning from them. With a sweep of her drawn wand, she stepped from the room and spelled the door shut behind her. The sound of her hasty footsteps echoing down the hallway was the only sound of her departure. They disappeared within seconds.

"What a load of bollocks," Ron grunted. A glance towards him showed Hermione that his cheeks were gradually flushing red in anger that had been repressed in the presence of his mother. "Why can't we go down?"

"Oh, because you'd be going for all the right reasons, Ron," Ginny snarled at him, her lips curling. Her own anger, similarly battered aside by her mother, was returning in full force.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean," Ginny enunciated slowly, as though speaking to a fool. "That you're hardly someone who'd jump to Salomé's defence."

"Just what do you mean by –?"

"You're being a git, Ron," one of the twins supplied. "Anyone would think you actually hated her. Maybe even take Moody's side if a fight broke out."

"Do you think it will?" Ginny asked over the sounds of Ron's indignant spluttering.

Her brother shrugged. "It might."

"We should be there," Hermione murmured, frowning. "If something happened, we could help." Not that she doubted the skills of her elders, not in the least, but… Hermione felt the desperate need to be there. Just in case. She didn't know where it came from – their brief meeting had been so inadequate, had revealed next to nothing and, with situations like Kreacher arising, had elicited more questions than had been answered.

"I would help," Ron muttered, shooting an accusing glare at his siblings. "I would. I don't hate her."

"Could have fooled me," Ginny rebuffed.

"I _don't_."

"Alright, children," one of the twins broke in. He raised a hand as though calling for attention. "Enough of this. If we're going to do something, it would be better to act now than to wait until after it had already happened."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, eyeing him suspiciously. It was his twin who answered.

"Mum said we couldn't be there. She didn't say we couldn't listen in."

"I sort of got the impression that direction was encompassed in the whole 'stay out of it' emphasis."

"Hermione, you've got to learn to test the boundaries a little," the first twin said. He grinned as she turned her frown upon him.

"What did you have in mind?" Ginny asked. Ever an active supporter of her brother's whims, she was immediately an eager participant. Her eyes almost danced with enthusiasm.

The second twin beamed approvingly towards his sister. In answer, he withdrew a length of peach-coloured string from his pocket and held it aloft. "Maybe…?"

"George, I love you," Ginny grinned in reply.

"Should we really be doing this?" Hermione asked, even though she felt she had already accepted the inevitable. Accepted and felt eager for it, despite her tendency towards abiding by the rules.

The other twin – Fred; Hermione always had difficulty distinguishing them, even now – offered her a coddling glance. "Hermione, it's like you don't know us at all. Think about what you're asking."

Hermione didn't really need to think about it. She already knew.

They made quick work of stationing themselves along the bannister overlooking the ground floor hallway. The only obstacle had been the door itself; Mrs Weasley had locked it with her usual adeptness, in a charm that diverted even the most exceptional of Hermione's _Alohamora_ 's. Surprisingly it was Ron who provided the solution rather than the expected twins. He fumbled a waxen package of Unlockable Usurper from his pocket, one of the twins' own products, and offered it to Ginny at the door.

"You have my steadfast approval, little brother," one of the twins – Hermione thought she could pick it to be Fred – said. Ron only swatted at him with a grumble.

The Extendable Ear slithered worm-like from the upper floor, curling tentatively as it picked up the first of the conversation below. Hermione couldn't see Salomé or Cedric, or any of the Order members, but she had no doubt they were there. Grimmauld Place had a tell tale, resounding chime that erupted throughout every wall when the front door slammed shut. She hadn't heard the groaning echo, and given that Anti-Apparation wards apparently surrounded the house – definitely, Hermione had discovered, as immediately after they'd decided on their course of action she'd charmed a series of differential Detection Charms about herself. Hermione was embarrassed to realise just how much detectable magical presence she'd missed.

Leaning into Ron in an attempt to squeeze closer to the end of the Extendable Ear, Hermione almost ceased her breathing in order to hear more closely. Ron's similar silence suggested he was attempting the same. Slowly, like white noise clearing into words, the conversation reached their ears. It was Dumbledore's voice that surfaced first.

"… do not want to impose upon you, my dear. We simply wished to know. It could be advantageous for the both of us, I believe."

"Advantageous?" That was Salomé, her voice cool and closed, unwavering. "Pray tell, what advantages would our camaraderie provide me?"

"You'd be a fool to overlook the obvious, girl," Moody's voice grumbled along the Extendable Ear. Hermione could almost swear that she heard it rumble in a vibration through the floors beneath her. "More hands are better than only one pair."

"And yet for all of your foresight, you overlook the obvious disadvantages," Salomé replied.

"Disadvantages?" Dumbledore asked, his voice nothing but curious. Unlike Moody, he seemed more inquisitive that accusatory. "Assistance in undertaking a near impossible task would be classified disadvantageous?"

"You're both fools," Moody grumbled, his anger surfacing once more. Hermione suspected from his choice of words that only Salomé and Cedric remained before them. Truly, she could have guessed as much from the vehemency of Moody's tone; he was averse to the Salomé Situation, to the turn of events, and could rarely speak a word in reference to the young witch without Sirius bodily leaping down his throat. Evidently Sirius had been removed from the scene; how Salomé had managed that, what with Sirius' persistence, was unfathomable.

"Fools?" Cedric spoke up. There was iron in his tone that made Hermione cringe. "Fools for not wishing to act in open opposition to the Darkest wizard of our time?"

"It wouldn't be open opposition." Surprisingly, it was McGonagall's voice that spoke in reply. Hermione hadn't anticipated her to be there. "No more than any that you say you have before."

"My actions have hardly been in open opposition," Salomé corrected.

"But you've destroyed the Horcruxes –"

"Minerva, please," Dumbledore interrupted her with a quiet word. He continued speaking, but for a moment Hermione didn't hear him. Her mind had shorted, fastening onto the information that had been let slip so briefly. Horcruxes… Salomé had destroyed the Horcruxes? Was it all of them? She had – how? How was that even possible? From what little Hermione could discern, Horcruxes were nearly indestructible, with only a scarce few methods able to inflict damage upon them. And even outside of their indestructibility, they were reportedly able to assume any shape, secrete in any object that the holder chose.

McGonagall had said that Salomé had destroyed the Horcruxes? How was that even possible? She'd not only somehow managed to _find_ them, but destroy them as well?

"… combining our efforts to reach a mutual goal," Dumbledore was saying. Hermione started, fidgeting in annoyance at herself for tuning out to the conversation. "If I but knew of your own accomplishments, if we could exchange knowledge of our respective efforts, then we would both be more aware of the closeness to our goals. For subsequent missions, a helping hand may even assist in our mutual progress. Perhaps, if you would tell me…?"

"Working together would not be feasible," Salomé repeated. "Any form of correspondence between myself and the Order is a chance to be discovered by Riddle."

"And yet you found it possible to re-establish a relationship with your old affiliates," Moody said. He sounded far too satisfied with himself.

Not for the first time Hermione felt her dislike for the man grow. She had always admired Moody, always respected him for his competency in magic, his courage, his knowledge of the Dark Arts and sheer tactical proficiency. But in recent weeks, what with disputes pertaining to Salomé arising at least once at every Order meeting, her admiration had become coloured by discontent. Moody was narrow-minded, unable to see anything but that which he had deduced from his own observations. How he could be so prejudiced without solid evidence, with only speculation, and especially considering who Salomé used to be, was infuriating.

And now he was questioning Salomé's inclination to meet with her friends? After having to almost plead with Cedric to ask Salomé, and then having to wait impatiently for a response for so long, Hermione felt nothing by irritation rise within her from Moody's scepticism. A glance to her side towards her friends showed each of their faces slowly draining into angry disgruntlement. Even Ron, for all of his disputes, seemed nothing if not angered by Moody's presumption.

That anger was evidently echoed by Cedric floors below. "Excuse me?" His voice was icy with just an edge of fiery heat. "Just what are you suggesting?"

"Only that it seems awfully suspicious that the girl might be so eager to reacquaint herself with some of her past companions while other, more… capable individuals are excluded from such." Hermione could almost see the narrowing of Moody's eyes, the jutting forwards of his knobbly chin. "Curious."

"Alastor, you can't possibly –"

"It is quite alright, Professor McGonagall," Salomé broke in. Her voice was, surprisingly, almost comforting, as though she were reassuring her old professor that she wasn't dissuaded by Moody's suspicions. "To answer your question, Professor Moody –"

"It's just Moody these days," the man grumbled.

Salomé continued as though Moody hadn't spoken. "The very nature of the parameters of your assumption is answer enough. That you of the more… capable," and there she paused in an exact mimic, for exactly the same amount of time, that Moody had moments before, "would arise further suspicion should a reestablishment of correspondence be discovered."

"You don't think that making nice with your little friends wouldn't elicit at least a little of the same suspicion?" Moody asked.

"That is where my presence acts as adequate dissuasion," Cedric said. "My very friendship with those of Salomé's past would be more than enough reasoning behind her confrontation with them." At his words, Hermione felt a small smile spread across her face. She shared her delight at Cedric's words, even so off-handed as they were, with a beaming Ginny.

"And it wouldn't for her meeting with us?" Moody continued without waiting for an answer. "It seems very suspicious to me indeed that Riddle's _consort_ would associate with any members of the Order."

"That Riddle's _consort_ would deem a conversation with any of you as worthy of her time would seem ludicrous." Cedric sounded as though he positively spat his disgust at Moody's words. It drew a cringe from Hermione to hear, even with her own internal objections to the crassness of Moody's claim. Cedric was angry, and in her mind Hermione could see his face in the glaring mask he'd worn earlier that afternoon. He was angry not for himself but for Salomé. That anger flared protectively in a terrifying, earth-shuddering manner. "I think it more likely that she would consider time spent with past friends more worthy of her."

"Worthy? Is her time so costly?"

"When considering it spent on you? Exceptionally."

"And you don't believe that Riddle would be suspicious of such behaviour at all?"

"Not hardly. He already believes me swayed in my allegiances because of Salomé."

"And are you?"

"What?" Cedric's tone was flat, harsh.

Moody gave a mirthless chuckle. "Are you so swayed, Diggory?"

There was a pause. "If it was a matter of choosing between loyalty towards _you_ , Moody, and Salomé, I think my mind is made."

A choking sound followed. "How – how dare you! You could even think –"

"My loyalties are my own to be dealt –"

"You would so –"

"- and they are none of your business any longer."

"They sodding are if it means you've turned –"

"Alastor, please," Dumbledore attempted cordially.

"You mean you've turned! Dammit, Diggory, of all the idiotic, maddened –"

"I claim no allegiance to Darkness but instead to a single person," Cedric replied heatedly.

"To some boy who no longer exists?"

" _No_. To a woman who is very much deserving of it."

"Deserving! That traitorous little bitch is deserving of –"

"You speak one more fucking word and I will hex you into oblivion, Moody." Cedric's voice sliced through Moody's spluttering. Hermione flinched, her eyes widened in horror at the rapid turn of events. The slight quiver of Ron's shoulder pressed to her own echoed her feelings entirely.

Moody audibly growled. "You could try, boy, but you wouldn't stand a chance."

"Alastor, please –" McGonagall attempted this time.

"You sorely underestimate me, Moody. Believe me, I'm more than capable –"

"That is _enough_."

The crack of those three, sharp words shattered the heat of the argument. In an instant a hush descended. Hermione would have given her last penny to be a fly on the wall, simply to witness what went on below. To see the expressions on their faces. To behold the effects of the silencing power of Salomé's voice, the force and domination that the small woman somehow enforced like a visible weight upon her surroundings, that had somehow silenced four exceptionally powerful and older listeners. Hermione longed for that kind of skill, regardless of the fact that she knew she would never use it, that she would never feel comfortable with it had she not acquired it through respect. She found herself once more holding her breath.

Finally, Salomé spoke once more. "That is the last I will hear of this, Mr Diggory. I need not your volatility nor your attempts to speak on my behalf in my defence."

The following pause left Hermione fidgeting in frustration. If only she could see. When Cedric spoke it was in a muted, almost remorseful tone. "My apologies, Miss Belaire."

"Don't be ridiculous. I told you not to call me that."

"Then I apologise for that, too. I misunderstood, given that you used my own last name." Another pause. "You promised you would never do that again."

"Alongside the promise you gave me that you wouldn't loose your sensibility to my defence."

Cedric gave a slight chuckle that left Hermione blinking in confusion. Amused? Cedric was amused, and so quickly after succumbing to fiery, defensive anger? It was almost unnerving. Would have been had Hermione not almost begun to expect as much. There was something about the relationship between Salomé and Cedric that seemed to encourage the unexpected and make such acts of unpredictability even… expected.

"I've kept my word, by and large," Cedric murmured. There was definite fondness in his tone.

"Until now, yes. Strive to assume such a state of passivity in all situations, if you would."

Hermione could feel the incredulous stare Ron turned towards her, could hear the whispers of similar incredulity from Ginny at her other side and the snorts of disbelief from the twins. She only just withheld her own. Cedric bowing down to _anyone_ was exceptional. It would have been more surprising that he had flared so ferociously in an aggressive defence of another – for Cedric had always been a relatively mellow if steadfast individual – had not Hermione witnessed his undying protectiveness of Salomé that day already.

That such fierce protectiveness had developed after such a short time was entirely unprecedented. Hermione almost didn't know what to make of it. It was even more surprising in that Salomé so obviously didn't need Cedric's protection.

A soft murmur, not quite intelligible, thrummed through the Extendable Ear, drawing Hermione's attention once more. She had just discerned Moody's grumble, Dumbledore's hushed tone, when her old Headmaster spoke up once more. "I feel the need to apologise. To both you, Salomé, and you, Cedric. I feel perhaps we approached this situation in a poor manner."

"You could describe it as such," Salomé agreed, "though I feel it is not simply from my perspective that you may consider it aversive."

"How so?" Dumbledore asked.

Hermione could almost see Salomé's elegant shrug in her brief pause. "Only that, should we correspond in our efforts, the likelihood of our mutual goals becoming known to undesirable witnesses would rise exponentially."

"Only if someone were to reveal their secrets," Moody muttered. A shushing sound that Hermione suspected belonged to McGonagall silenced the wordless grumbles that followed.

Salomé hummed her agreement. "But then, secrets are no longer secrets if they are known to all."

"Not even when simply restricted to the very?" Dumbledore asked, though his tone suggested he already anticipated Salomé's answer.

"Not even then. Perhaps especially not then, for closely kept secrets have a habit of resounding loudly in their coveted silence."

"You referring to Legilimancy," a hitherto unheard voice said with a sibilant hiss. Hermione started to recognise it belonged to Snape. Not three but four Order members had arrived. A cold shiver rippled down Hermione's spine. Not just any four members either; they would have to be the four most powerful. Just how dangerous did they perceive Salomé to be?

Although… Hermione had to admit that the combined efforts of Salomé – or of Harry – and an angry, protective Cedric would have been formidable indeed. Perhaps not surpassing the efforts of the four elder Order members, but certainly…

"Are you practiced in Occlumency, Miss… Belaire?" Snape continued.

"Practiced?" Salomé's voice was chilling. "Professor Snape, I can assure you that the exposure to Legilimancy you yourself have faced upon confronting the Dark Lord hold not a candle to the torch of my own. Yes, I believe I am practiced. Enough to be capable of concealing that which most decidedly requires concealment."

"And you've succeeded?" McGonagall asked, faintly incredulous.

"Evidently. I doubt I would be alive had I not. Riddle favours me, yes, but the most important thing in his world is he himself. Any threat to his existence is to be thwarted in every instance."

"In that I believe you are entirely correct," Snape said quietly. The choked stutter that Ron emitted spoke for Hermione too; for perhaps the first time ever, Snape had agreed with Harry. True, Salomé was not Harry, in many ways, had claimed she was as changed as to be a different person entirely, but still. He hadn't even sounded resentful for having to do so. Perhaps the shared experience of close proximity to Riddle, to the Darker magics in general, was a potential bond-builder. It had been years since Hermione had been made aware of Snape's apparent two-sided allegiances. It would make sense; he was a hard, cruel person, but wary of him and his unfriendliness as she was Hermione had always found that it was the nature of Snape's imposed ostracism that encouraged his isolation more than anything else. That no one else would be able to relate to him. Maybe he felt a kindred spirit in Salomé.

"Impressive, Miss Salomé," Dumbledore murmured. And he did genuinely sound impressed. "I must question, then, if you've such confidence in your own Occlumency abilities, why you are so hesitant to hear of the efforts of the Order?"

"Albus –" Moody began.

"Alastor, please." Hermione imagined she could see Dumbledore's hand raised for silence. "Miss Salomé?"

Salomé paused before answering in slow, measured syllables. "It is not so much dubiousness on my own part that urges hesitancy."

"You mean you think -!"

"Alastor, _please_ ," Dumbledore repeated, more emphatically this time. "Assumptions will do us little favours in this instance."

"It's not an assumption, Albus. She's basically stated her stance and opinion openly enough." Moody gave a snort that sounded nothing if not derogatory. "You mean to suggest that it is _our_ ineptitude that would lead to Riddle's revelation of the destroyed Horcruxes?"

"There, I need not to have said ought at all," Salomé replied. Inadequately concealed amusement coloured her tone.

"You try my patience, girl," Moody growled.

"As you most assuredly try mine. I, however, have little to no inclination to remain in this abode any longer than necessary. Should you too choose to no longer inhibit my passage, believe me I would have no qualms about taking the proffered exit you would provide."

One of the twins muttered something that sounded faintly admiring to his brother, who snickered in a silent shaking of shoulders. Hermione had to agree; Salomé's replies was far more amusing and strangely admirable when not directed towards her.

"I apologise, Miss Salomé," Dumbledore murmured quietly. He seemed to be doing little but apologising for Moody's objections. Hermione almost felt sorry for him; the rising discontent she'd been feeling for him dampened just slightly. "But perhaps you may appreciate the dilemma we find ourselves in. To my knowledge, you have been remarkably successful in your hunt for the Voldemort's Horcruxes. As this end is similarly my own, I appreciate this greatly. You have done commendable work by even considering acting upon your understanding of the situation."

And just like that the dampening of discontent within Hermione dwindled. There was something in Dumbledore's tone, something not quite right. It was as though he talked down to Salomé, thought her efforts trivial and juvenile when compared to his own, greater movements. It irked Hermione for reasons she couldn't exactly understand. Before she could make sense of it however, Dumbledore continued.

"I have made my own attempts at seeking and destroying these Horcruxes. To my knowledge and understanding, throughout his lifetime Voldemort has created seven. Given it is a powerful number unto itself, and when considering my support of outsider knowledge, I believe this assumption is relatively accurate."

He paused and Hermione got the impression he was affixing Salomé with a questioning glance. Oh, to be a fly on that wall! There was nothing so vexing as to be left on the outskirts of a pool of knowledge with only the capacity to smell the pure waters rather than to actively taste them. Hermione tasted those scents like a parched man would dirty water. It did little to stave off her thirst for the understanding that bubbled just out of reach. All she could do was clutch greedily at the passing wisps of revelation and struggle to lock them together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

"I can neither confirm nor deny this assumption," Salomé replied. "There is no way to know with absolute certainty whether you are correct or err."

"That is true," Dumbledore conceded. "But even without such confirmation, supposition supplants that which we have no way of assuredly ascertaining."

"A dubious approach, but necessary," Salomé agreed. It sounded almost as though they two were alone in the hallway below now. Though they spoke cordially enough, there was a definite strain to the air that left Hermione fidgeting once more. She felt it like a sixth sense, a storm brewing upon the horizon and detected in the same manner that an ant could smell rain, and like an ant that smell urged her to duck for cover. Immediately.

Not that she would. Hermione wouldn't miss the exchange for the world.

"You have clearly been making an attempt to destroy such Horcruxes on your own," Salomé said.

"Indeed. And succeeded in some instances."

"Albus," Moody warned.

"Three, in fact. And destroyed with the dual efforts of basilisk venom and the Sword of Gryffindor."

" _Albus_ ," Moody exclaimed. The horror in his voice was paramount.

Again, Dumbledore ignored him. "You yourself were party to the destruction of one during your time at Hogwarts. Perhaps you recall? Or perhaps you could deduce?"

There was a contemplative pause for a moment in which Hermione frantically scrambled around in her mind, scouring her memories for the answer herself. She batted away a questioning jostle of Ron's elbow into her ribs, truncating his further efforts with a glare and biting her lip as she focused more fiercely.

Salomé beat her to it. "Ah, of course. The diary. How foolish of me. I should have realised."

"Indeed. Aside from that –"

"Albus, you cannot be serious," Moody interrupted him.

"I too must caution your readiness to share your knowledge," McGonagall added, though at least she sounded regretful for her hesitancy. Hermione could almost forgive her for that.

"Your precautions are noted," Dumbledore replied, and in that instant Hermione's satisfaction with the ex-Headmaster resurfaced. He was very obviously disregarding those precautions. Her suppositions were validated when he continued. "However, I believe that if we are to progress towards our common destination, some uncertain footsteps must be taken. Miss Salomé, perhaps you can confirm my suspicions that the remaining two objects I believe to be Horcruxes were indeed of similar disregard at present?"

"I hardly think you need my confirmation, sir," Salome said. "The destruction of such items is certainly demonstrative enough."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore allowed. "But please allow for an old man's whims. With the accompanying efforts of my fellow 'rebels' as I believe we are sometimes called, I have further been involved in the destruction of the diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw and the ring of Salazar Slytherin." A pause. "You thoughts?"

There was an extended pause in which understanding dawned upon Hermione. Dumbledore was not simply asking for Salomé's opinion; he was expressly telling her the nature of the objects, the Horcruxes, that he had already destroyed. The suspicious confusion on Ginny's face and the blank miscomprehension on Ron's indicated they hadn't reached a similar conclusion to Hermione, but at a questioning glance to Ron and the opening of his mouth to comment she waved a hand at him with a mouthed, "Later". Surprisingly enough, the twins seemed as satisfied with their understanding of the situation as she did. One of them – George? – even offered her a smirking smile.

"I believe," Salomé said slowly, "that your assumptions may indeed hold a grain of truth. I cannot be certain, of course –"

"Of course not. They are merely that: my assumptions."

"Of course." Salomé paused again before speaking. "I cannot tell you of my own searching. This I will not reveal, not to anyone."

"Why, you insufferable little –"

"Alastor, please, restrain yourself." This time it was McGonagall who quieted Moody. She sounded nothing if not wearied by his persistence. "Please continue, Miss Salomé."

"Thankyou, Professor. Cedric, you will similarly cease such objections or I will have to ask you to leave." The statement didn't expressly make sense with the information Hermione could discern; she could only assume that Cedric had responded with volatility to Moody's words once more. What on earth was going on with him? "I appreciate your accommodation, Professor Dumbledore. Please understand that I do not withhold such information out of any sense of resentment."

"That heartens me to hear," Dumbledore replied. He sounded as though he was smiling. "Perhaps, then… simply a mention of the degree of your success?"

Salomé didn't reply immediately. When she did it was hesitantly. Not tentatively, but with a definite air of reluctance. "I believe that such a revelation on my part may indeed be similarly incriminating, sir."

Hermione felt herself sink, deflating slightly. How disheartening, to have Salomé so closed in response.

Quite the opposite to her expectations, however, Dumbledore seemed nothing if not delighted. He even gave a slight chuckle, and there was nary a hint of strain to the sound. Blinking slowly, frowning with consideration, Hermione deemed that some unseen exchange must have occurred. Some… confirmation? "Ah, well, I apologise once more, Miss Salomé, for pushing for reciprocation when you are evidently so reluctant."

"Evidently," Salomé echoed. Or perhaps emphasised.

"And just as apparently, you have no inclination to revise your decision? To reconsider your resistance to accepting assistance."

"In that you are entirely correct, Professor."

"Then in that case, I believe we have little right to prevent your leave further."

"Albus, you cannot be serious," Moody barked. Hermione wished she could smack the man. Must he be so pig-headed in his persistent prejudice? It was insufferable.

"We are hardly the sort of people who would impose our company upon those who want nothing of it," Dumbledore replied. "Upon anyone, friend or foe."

"I don't believe that is what Alastor refers to, Albus," McGonagall sighed with exasperation. Dumbledore only hummed merrily in response.

"You play an interesting game, Dumbledore," Salomé said idly, her tone considering. Hermione pictured the hawk-like tilting of her head, the intensity of her gaze as she spoke. "I cannot say I regret working alongside you, but had I more faith in the assistance of others than I believe your contribution would be marked."

"And I thank you for your consideration," Dumbledore replied. He sounded genuine enough, but there was still a note of condescending merriment to his tone. Hermione had to wonder in that moment if he ever truly shook himself from the feeling. "I similarly regret your hesitancy. Please be aware that, should you wish to change your mind, myself and my associates would be more than willing to utilise your expertise."

"That is one way of phrasing my situation," Salomé said with a hint of amusement in her tone. "You have my gratitude, Dumbledore. I cannot claim that I will take you up on your offer, but that it stands is… comforting." The way she said it suggested she felt something entirely different to 'comforting'.

There was a shuffling of movement, the soft thumping of footsteps and muted murmurs that couldn't quite be made out by the Extendable Ear. Not another word in conversation was voiced, however, and within moments there was a distant slamming of a door and the entire house of Grimmauld Place trembled and groaned, chiming with the departure of its guests.

Hermione drew back from the bannister onto her haunches, frowning. The confrontation had not been nearly as drastic as she had feared. It could have gone better, true – the near fight between Cedric and Moody had almost ended in disaster, and it would have been ideal for Salomé to have agreed to working alongside the Order – but all in all… not that bad. If anything, the primary thoughts consuming Hermione's mind were regrets as to Salomé's hasty departure. That was truly regrettable.

And with the new mellowness Salomé had presented? Well, it wasn't quite 'mellow', but she was certainly more approachable then their last time they'd met her. And though Hermione couldn't quite detect any resounding traces of Harry remaining, there was definitely something there. Something below the surface that she hadn't quite see in full just yet. Something she desperately wanted to.

A frantic hand waving from Ginny, a nudge of toes to thigh from Ron and the huddled clustering of the twins urged Hermione back towards the Extendable Ears. Nearly lunging towards the bannister and overhang once more, Hermione chanced an attempt to peer down upon the heads of those they eavesdropped upon. She'd long since discarded any initial guilt at her own actions; some things she just had to know.

"… expect it to have gone any other way," McGonagall was saying. She sighed heavily. "I believe we were fortunate that she didn't react more aggressively to our suggestions."

"She?" Moody countered. "If anyone is of concern it's Diggory. What the ruddy hell is going through that boy's head, I ask you?"

Ginny hissed beneath her breath, an echo of the discontent that thinned Hermione's lips. Thankfully, the combined efforts of Dumbledore and McGonagall served to moderate her dissatisfaction.

"I believe that there lies beneath far more than we have considered," Dumbledore said.

"And perhaps not an altogether negative turn of events," McGonagall added. There was a hint of something in her tone, something that resounded with the consideration that Hermione herself had manifested minutes before.

"For whatever reason, we can't trust the boy anymore," Moody continued. "He's turned."

"He has not turned," McGonagall said. "He has simply redirected his loyalties to where they are most needed."

"Towards the Dark wizards and witches of Britain?" Moody snorted. "Oh yes, well done, Minerva, that sounds a splendid idea. Let the boy align himself with our opposition." Another snort and a scoffing sound followed. "He knows far too much to be allowed out of our sight, let alone to wander into the viper's nest –"

"You hardly need worry about Diggory, Moody," Snape intoned. His voice, as always, was absent of overt emotion, a dry drone. "I can attest to that."

"To what do you refer, Severus?" Dumbledore asked. His voice was curious but held an intensity that was unnerving.

"Nothing exceptional, only that Diggory expresses no such overt allegiances to the Riddle nor anyone else in his behaviour. I believe his sole loyalty lies with Belaire."

"Does this trouble you, Severus?"

Snape paused before replying. "Not… in the slightest. I have intensified my observations of the girl since her –" he paused to clear his throat quietly, "since her revelation."

"And?" McGonagall asked.

Another pause. Snape seemed almost reluctant to speak. "And I have concluded that she remains not a direct threat to our cause."

Silence hung thickly in the room. Slowly, like a blossoming flower, Hermione felt relief flood through her. Snape thought Salomé wasn't a threat? _Snape_? Words from few others that would hold as much significance as that. Snape was aversive to, even hated, just about everyone. Yet he saw no problems with it?

"You are obviously overlooking something," the ever-suspicious Moody grunted. "You let your desires for Potter's – for this _Belaire's_ – goodness to overshadow your logical thinking."

"I assure you, I hold no such desires," Snape affirmed. "It would serve me no purpose to preach of Belaire's altruism or indeed her simple lack of actively antagonistic participation in our war. Should she seek to assert herself against us, I would feel no qualms about routing her out."

"You speak the truth as you see it," Dumbledore murmured, though he sounded as though he spoke more to himself than to his fellow Order members.

"This is a good thing, though" McGonagall said, her tone hopeful. "Perhaps she is not so Dark after all?"

"Oh, I'm not sure of that," Dumbledore returned, and once more Hermione could hear the faint smile in his words. Hermione swallowed the tightness in her throat; she certainly didn't want people to believe that of Salomé, for all her faults. She truly longed for the girl that had once been her friend to be _Good_. "But perhaps she is not quite as captivated by Darkness as we had feared."

"So you think there is some merit to her Horcrux hunting?"

"Indeed, Minerva."

"Even after she claimed otherwise?" McGonagall sighed again heavily. "I want to think well of her, Albus, I truly do, but there is still the possibility –"

"A discussion for another time, perhaps," Dumbledore interrupted. "At a site with less potential for… overhearing."

"The bastard's trying to keep secrets," one of the twins whispered, and though Hermione found herself, alongside Ron and Ginny, glaring at him for his words – for Dumbledore hardly deserved such an insult – she couldn't help but agree. At least to the second half of the comment. Dumbledore likely knew that they eavesdropped directly above him, even. Hermione had discovered the wizened old man capable of far greater feats.

"I'm thinking that you should probably find this 'site' about now. Go have a sniff around for it, if you would." Sirius' voice suddenly broke into the ensuing silence. Hermione leant once more into the bannister in an attempt to peer below. She thought she caught sight of Sirius' scruffy head just peeking into view.

Moody grumbled something unintelligible before speaking. "Are you saying we're not welcome here anymore, Black." He grunted. "Merlin, is every Order member turning towards the Dark now?"

"Hardly, Moody. Don't get your knickers in a knot. Stay if you want – I've no complaint to you so long as you know how to keep a lid on certain things." Despite his words, Sirius' tone suggested that he was very clearly incredibly comfortable with such a possibility, that he was in fact quite averse to it, but he didn't revoke his words. Instead he cleared his throat and continued. "But in saying that, you obviously feel like this is no longer a place you can keep your secrets."

"I wonder why that might be," Snape muttered bitingly. Sirius uttered a muted growl but otherwise gave no reply.

"We do not wish to suggest that we trust you any less than we always have, Sirius," Dumbledore sighed. He sounded very old in that moment. "Only that, given the circumstances, it may be necessary to ensure a minimal quota of individuals is party to such information."

"Spare me the consolation prize, Dumbledore," Sirius said, voice flat and expressionless. "I honestly don't care any more. And no, Moody, I'm not going 'Dark'. But I sure as hell won't let my supposedly 'Dark' godso – _goddaughter_ fight from the other side alone."

"You still think –" Moody began.

"We're not letting her fight alone, Sirius," McGonagall hastened to override Moody. "That was the very nature of coming here this evening. To reach a point, a confidence with Salomé Belaire, whereby we can work together for this hunt to destroy the Horcruxes."

"Is that why you came? I would have thought there was something else to that." Sirius paused, and his voice lowered almost inaudibly. "Speaking of, how exactly did you know to come tonight? I'm very curious."

The silence in reply was very telling. It left a bad taste in Hermione's mouth and she had to fight the urge to express her distaste with a scowl.

"That's what I thought," Sirius continued, as though he'd actually received a reply, one that Hermione couldn't as of yet fathom. There was the sound of more shuffling, of more footsteps, and when he spoke again it was quieter again, as though spoken from a distance. "If you really want to know more about your 'Horcrux situation', I'd recommend speaking to Kreacher. If you can, anyway. You might find he has some interesting things to say about my goddaughter." The sound of a door slamming shut punctuated his words sharply.

Dumbledore, McGonagall, Moody and Snape didn't talk after that. Aside from an exchanged murmur, little sound seeped through the Extendable Ear. Hermione hardly paid a moment of attention to them anyway. Her thoughts was turned entirely inwards, contemplating and collating all she'd learnt. She barely even glanced up when the walls groaned at the departure of the Order members, or when her friends urged her to her feet to retreat to the room they'd abandoned before Mrs Weasley could notice their escape.

Hermione didn't know everything. She suspected that there was certainly quite a number of things that she was not party to, key features of the overheard conversation floors below that made no sense to her and likely wouldn't until certain facts were freely shared. But there was one thing she knew, and that was that she would be talking to Kreacher. Hermione would be damned if the unfriendly elf would rebuff her this time. She was getting some answers, whether he liked it or not.


	10. A Dangerous Mind

 

With a soft sigh, Salomé opened her eyes. She hurt all over, but that was hardly something particularly unusual. She'd long since detached herself from any hurts the soft comfort of the mattress failed to alleviate. The bruises in the shape of fingers, the ache of muscles pushed to distress, the strain of limbs stretched into awkward shapes. She knew it all. _Those_ hurts hardly even fazed her anymore.

The bed, while comfortable enough, was never one Salomé would find herself able to sleep in. Not because it was slightly too short – because it wasn't – or the silken sheets were a little worn – because they weren't. It was because of the memories that those sheets held, and because of the other occupant that always shared it with her. It was a fact she tried to overlook to allow for a semblance of sleep, yet often failed at doing quite marvellously. Abandoning awareness was one of many ways to ignore the discomfort of the Dark Lord's presence.

For the umpteenth time over the past two weeks, Salomé found herself contemplating her visit to Grimmauld Place. Niggling at the series of events that exploded in that brief occurrence had become something of a study of interest to her. The memories resurfaced in every instant that she allowed her mind to wander in even slight drifting.

There was too much to consider. The brief – _very_ brief – meeting with those who had once been her friends. The confrontation with familiar yet near-forgotten faces; Sirius, Remus, Mr and Mr Weasley, Fred and George. Then seeing Ron, Hermione and Ginny once more. It had been discomforting to the extreme, a degree to which Salomé had only just managed to maintain her composure throughout. Long-discarded memories had resurfaced from the moment she had stepped through the door into the bare, gloomy room filled only with seats and a fireplace. Memories she'd thought long buried and thrust firmly into the past.

Clearly they had not been quite so firmly discarded.

But it was more than that. More than even the discomforting meeting with the more amicable figures from her past. The darkened memory of her confrontation with her old professors, with Dumbledore, had fought fiercely for precedence in her thoughts over the past weeks. It had been both irksome and comforting to have Cedric's presence alongside her throughout; she disliked relying upon others, especially to fight her battles for her. That was _not_ what Salomé had intended his accompaniment to be for. It irritated her to consider that he saw it as his role in the slightest do so. And yet at the same time… no, comforting wasn't quite the right word. She felt nothing so tender and kind-hearted. Empowering, perhaps? For though Salomé had scolded him into quelling his temper, there had been the very definite knowledge that, had she urged him, Cedric would attack any who thought to threaten her, would be upon them like a hound siccing a fox. Yes, empowering was a very applicable word.

And yet oddly… reassuring?

Then there was mention of the Horcruxes. Salomé had already suspected much of the information Dumbledore had cordially provided her with, but suspicions were far removed from confirmation. It was invigorating, encouraging on an entirely foreign level, to discover that, quite without her direct action, her plans were reaching fruition. A strange excitement, almost giddiness, would suffuse Salomé should she dwell upon such thoughts for too long.

So she didn't dwell upon them. She actively avoided thinking about them, even. Riddle was particularly sensitive to passing thoughts that regarded him, and adept as she was at Occulmency, Salomé hardly felt the desire to bait the snake into action.

Turning her head slightly, she drew her gaze towards where Riddle lay. His own was turned towards the ceiling, affording her the sight of his profile, pale against the darkness of the bedding sheets. His hair was still perfectly curled, not a tussle in sight and far too immaculate considering their situation. The arm he wrapped almost negligibly around Salomé's waist was not tight yet neither was it loose and permitting of movement; he held her exactly where he wanted her to be, no questions asked. History dictated that should she attempt to resist his hold, more bruises would follow. Salomé had enough new smears of discolouration arising from the last hour to want to seek to acquire more. She knew better than that.

Riddle had been talking, was still talking. Salomé registered the flow of his words in a distracted state, barely listening enough to respond in an adequate sense. It was all the same as it always was when they conversed alone; self-righteous indignation, disgust at those who had 'failed so profoundly at the very duty they were appointed', and generally expressing hatred for humanity as a whole. Because that was Riddle. And that was what he used Salomé for, as much as for sex, and as much as to act as the doll that hung off his arm at formal events. She was a sounding board for his complaints, a pair of ears to catch the hissing words that would otherwise manifest into violent curses and disfiguring hexes.

Salomé had worked hard to force those curses into the non-magical variety. She didn't mind being simply a pair of ears for him to grumble into either, so long as he didn't take out his frustrations on her physically as he was want to do much of the time anyway. At times it was even amusing, especially because she knew what she could do with such information.

"… impossible to discern the mindset of such an idiot of a man. He should have his wand snapped and his tongue removed."

Salomé skimmed her thoughts, picking through the last few moments of conversation she'd unconsciously picked up to discern exactly whom Riddle was referring to. "Davak is just a boy. Idiot though he may be, he could not be more than fifteen," she murmured, disregarding the mental reminder that 'fifteen' was but a few years younger than Salomé was herself.

"Such stupidity will only exacerbate with age. He is a Confundus Charm in the working synchrony of the Junior Judiciary Department. A continuation of his position will only wreak chaos in the minds of the young purebloods I attempt to impose the proper manner upon." He paused, the barest touch of a slight frown settling on his smooth forehead. "I should kill him."

Salomé snorted with as much delicacy as she could care to enforce. "No, you shouldn't."

Riddle's eyes shifted towards her, a movement that disregarded the need to turn his head from the pillow. "Are you presuming to tell me what to do, Salomé?" He said, his voice was low and not yet dangerous but still a precursor of such.

Shaking her head and sighing with forced casualness, Salomé stretched, shifted, and pressed herself with further seeming casualness into Riddle's side. The warmth of skin on smooth skin wasn't as appealing as it should have been, but she had long since habituated herself to the discomfort of such contact. "Not at all, my Lord. I merely wished to highlight the dangers of such an approach to this… problem."

"Dangers? What possible danger could present itself to _me_?"

There was such confidence, such disdainful assurance in Riddle's voice that Salomé had to bite back another sigh. A real one, this time, and tinged with very real disgust. "The fact that Henry Davak is the son of Victoria Davak, and that killing him would likely leave her somewhat… disgruntled."

Riddle continued his quiet, sidelong regard for a moment. He was not an unintelligent man, far from it, and the fact that he had overlooked the very influential parentage of the Davak boy was merely a result of his often overwhelming single-mindedness; he was shaping the next generation of pureblood wizards, and the boy was impeding his work. As such he needed to be removed. Eliminated. That was simply how Riddle saw it.

At Salomé's words, however, a modicum of consideration seemed to settle upon him. He nodded slightly. "This is true. Victoria Davak could very well influence the vote on the new curfews being passed. If she dared."

"She would dare," Salomé interrupted. She rolled slightly, shifting to prop an arm beneath her cheek. Riddle's arm tightened unconsciously around her waist at the movement, uncomfortably tight with fingers digging into her hip sharply, but she ignored it. "Victoria could very well manage to sway the minds of at least half of the Committee without any of them being the wiser."

"And hence leave no trace of her workings," Riddle muttered tightly. His frustration was short-lived, however. "Fine. I won't kill him, but only because to rid myself of both Davaks would cause discontent. A week or so in my dungeons under Bella's hand might do to shake some intelligence into him."

 _Not likely_ , Salomé thought, but held her tongue. It would not do to push Riddle too far, to so bluntly dispute his tendency towards violence. Not that he saw it as violence, for that was the thing about Riddle; he lacked empathy and even the ability to feel pity. Salomé doubted he even truly felt pain, and as such simply couldn't fathom the damage such could inflict upon another.

Still, the Davak boy didn't deserve to be tortured into insanity, which was what Bellatrix Lestrange would undoubtedly resort to after a day or two of 'playing'. The woman was arguably even more dangerous than Riddle in that she would not listen to any semblance of reason when her mind was set. Unless by express order of her master, Bellatrix would walk through fire to complete a mission and continue to drag herself burned and bleeding to her goal. No, the boy did not deserve insanity, despite the fact that he was very much an idiot; Salomé had met him and had barely been able to hold an entire conversation with him without twitching herself.

But more than the boy, Victoria didn't deserve that. For whatever reason – call it the unconditional love of a parent or some other unfortunate inclination – Victoria doted upon her stupid son. He'd become the world to her after her husband died, and though Salomé could hardly stand to speak two words to the boy, she respected his mother. Victoria was an artist of politics, a spider spinning her intricate webs. She was a master and she didn't deserve to have her life torn apart because of a passing vexation of the Dark Lord.

"I do believe there is an alternative option to inflicting the boy upon Bellatrix,' Salomé said slowly, considering each word carefully before speaking. "Perhaps something that could be more advantageous."

Riddle had averted his gaze from Salomé to contemplate the ceiling once more at that point, but at her words he slowly drew them towards her once more. He even graced her with a turn of his head. "Oh? And what might that be? I fail to see how the boy could in any way be useful to me."

Allowing a smile to curl her lips, adding just a hint of malice for creep forth, Salomé shrugged one shoulder. "Not intentionally, no. But have you considered… _suggesting_ a marriage for him?"

Raising an eyebrow, Riddle pinched sharply at Salomé's hip. He did that sometimes, seeming to forget that her skin was sensitive enough to feel pain, even if it was only an echo of the real thing after such familiarity. Not that he would have cared or regretted his actions had he realised. Quite the opposite, there had been a time when the only thing Riddle had shown Salomé was pain. "Marry off the fool? Any family left with him would end in disaster. It is an inconceivable notion, Salomé."

"Unless…" Salomé continued, averting her eyes across the wide, shadowed room towards the distant fireplace in an attempt to appear thoughtful. As though his words caused her to reconsider the situation. "Unless it was to a family that would struggle under his burdensome relatedness. Struggle in an advantageous sense to you, of course."

She didn't need to glance towards Riddle to know he was smiling. A moment later her suspicions were confirmed by his soft chuckle. It was terrifying, that humour, and after so many years it still managed to send shivers down Salomé's spine. "What a remarkably devious little bird I've in my possession," he sighed, and with a single tug of his arm managed to draw her from her position alongside him until she was atop of him instead.

Salomé urged her expression into smiling into a mirror of his own as she folded her arms across his chest, dropping her chin onto her forearms. The jut of hipbones, of hard muscle beneath her, was nearly discomforting enough to urge her physical withdrawal. "I have learnt from an apt Master."

"Yes," Riddle hummed. "And you are certainly my most adept pupil." He cupped a hand to the back of Salomé's head and drew her towards him. Not to kiss, however. Salomé knew as soon as he abruptly closed his eyes that it wouldn't be to kiss. Instead he set his nose towards her forehead, inhaling sharply as though partaking of the scent of a flower. It was a fairly customary motion, but one she nonetheless still found unnerving. It reminded her too much of an overly assertive dog. "And did you perhaps have in mind a victim of such a disastrous union?"

"I did," Salomé replied. "But I will cede that your own opinions would certainly be more reasonable than my own."

It was a dangled carrot, Salomé knew. She'd played the game so many times she could almost do so in her sleep with nothing but her unconscious mind to direct her tongue. To tempt Riddle to seek her opinion with flattery and degrading of her own intelligence, for even subtle flattery, not quite compliments, worked a treat. And just as she'd intended, Riddle fell for her suggestion. He drew away from her forehead until they were staring at one another but an inch away. "A pathetic union, and one that would benefit me… the boy would suit the Margo girl or her cousin perfectly. Or perhaps Yallis? But come, my dear, share your thoughts."

Salomé fought the urge to draw back from his intent gaze. It had always unnerved her, staring into the dark flatness of his eyes that held no more life and expression than the coldly chiselled stone of a statue. It was a constant battle, and she usually avoided it at all costs, and not only for the heightened exposure to Legilimancy that she was afflicted with. To know that such a one so devoid of humanity existed – and more than that, effectively ruled Wizarding Britain – was horrifying to be reminded of time and time again.

Salomé didn't draw away. Instead, she settled for letting her smile widen further, tilting her head slightly. "What of the Orlandos?"

"The Orlandos? Their daughter…"

"Far too intelligent for her own good," Salomé continued, hooding her eyes as she adopted an expression of Riddle's so-called 'deviousness'. "And saddling her with the weight of an incompetent husband will impinge upon her movements in a significant number of pureblood circles."

"And would remove Davak from the Junior Judiciary," Riddle murmured, a smile curling his own lips.

Salomé nodded in agreement. It was simple; should one of the young members of the newfound department marry, they were immediately forced to resign their seat in favour or an alternative prospective member. As Salomé considered it, the situation was prefect: Davak would be removed from the department as Riddle desired with aggressive intensity in what he perceived as being a convenient wedding of two irritants.

That was how Salomé knew Riddle saw it. To her it was something much different. The Davak boy was stupid, it was true. He took after his doddering father in that regard. His mother Victoria, however, was not. And though she loved her son as she had loved her husband, stupidity included, Salomé knew she was hardly blind to the glaring flaw in his character.

To Riddle, Henry Davak would be removed from the Junior Judiciary Department, his place directly in the front lines of the next generation of lawyers, politicians and orators removed and a slight inflicted upon the Davaks for Victoria's behind-the-scenes puppeteering act. And better than that, Yvonne Orlando – a remarkably bright young girl of barely seventeen – would be weighed down by the constraints of an incompetent husband. Riddle disliked the Orlando's for the simple reason that they were too headstrong, too intelligent and far too independent. Subordinates though they were, it was a commonly known fact that they very much played there own game. Yvonne's marriage would certainly ruin them in.

That, however, was not how Salomé saw it. Yes, the Orlando's would be disgruntled and objectionable before they finally bowed in acceptance. Yes, Victoria would put up a fight, would dig her heels in and toss her head, declare how 'her boy would not be sold off like a cheap and replaceable whore'. Salomé could almost hear it now; the current head of the Davak house was particularly colourful in her words when indignant.

It would all be an act, however. Victoria would revel in the chance to tuck Yvonne Orlando under her wing, to teach her the subtle arts that so few perceived. The greatness of the resulting situation was that Riddle, for all his intelligence, didn't perceive it. He was oftentimes swayed by old-fashioned perceptions of women and disregarded their intelligence, even acknowledging Salomé's with overt condescension. Victoria was exceptional and beneath the cold-hearted Dark witch façade she presented she had a genuine sense of righteousness that would lend itself to standing behind the promotion of equal rights should Salomé manage to nudge her just the right way. Such an ally would be surely useful, even should she not know of her own allegiance.

It was the perfect solution. Even better because it was one more blow against Riddle and the world he was attempting to create, one he didn't even realise.

Riddle was talking again, and Salomé had to deliberately tune herself into his words for them to comprehend past a soft buzz of registration. "… can hardly conceive it. But truly, if any were to question my incentive to have you as my consort, they would only need hearken to your bedroom talk."

Salomé forced a coy smile onto her lips, blinking slowly. "Listen to my bedroom talk? And would you allow that, my Lord? Perhaps an audience next time?"

Riddle rolled his eyes dismissively. "You know I would not. Don't say foolish things, Salomé. It is unbecoming." And to punctuate his words he gave her another pinch to the hip, bruising the skin once more. She ignored it.

"I do know that. I am yours, my Lord, and no one else has the right to bear witness to that which only you will see. Or hear," Salomé added with another smile.

Dismissiveness faded into satisfaction as Riddle tightened his arms around Salomé once more, pressing her firmly against him. "And that is exactly as it should be. You are _mine_."

"Of course." She gave him another curling smile. "And would I be presumptuous in suggesting that I am favoured amongst your possessions?"

Riddle grumbled a deep growl of laughter that Salomé felt as much as heard. It was distant, and as he closed his eyes a moment later, resting his head backwards more firmly, it was as though he was falling into a satisfied doze. Yet even lowered as his inhibitions may be, the sound wasn't filled with humour as a normal person's would be. Salomé doubted he even knew what true humour was. "Are you jealous, my dear? What thoughts elicit such a question?"

Jealous? No, Salomé wasn't jealous. Far from it, she would be more than happy to give her position to anyone with the stupidity to take it from her. No, Salomé's question came from a different source. An inquisitive, delicate probing for the secrets she had long sought. And in the warm aftermath of sexual release, Salomé knew Riddle was at his most susceptible to letting details slip. "And if I am?"

Giving another not-laugh, quirked his lips at her. He didn't open his eyes again, however. "Then I would be most pleased. Jealousy is a fiery passion that will only drive you towards self-improvement."

"I would always be driven to self-improvement for you, my Lord."

"Of that I've no doubt," Riddle nodded. "But in answer to your question…" He exhaled in something that wasn't quite a sigh, a comfortable breath that truly did suggest the verge of sleep. It was as though their conversation had alleviated Riddle of his disgruntlement, urging him towards rest. He could awaken fully in a heartbeat, of course, if need be, but for now Salomé could only hold her breath and wait, pleading with the notion that he would just _let go_ a little _._ "Amongst them, most certainly."

Humming, Salomé inched herself slightly lower in her bed atop of Riddle and dropped her cheek down onto his chest. It was a slow, deliberate motion, an attempt to indicate her own 'tiredness' and further urge Riddle into his own. "And to whom should I consider my primary competition?"

There was a vibration through Salomé's ear, a repetition of Riddle's laughter, though he didn't make a noise this time. "Why? Do you intend to kill them?"

"Maybe," Salomé drawled. Then she sighed in false dejection. "No, of course not. I would never destroy that which was important to you. I merely wished to know."

"Always so inquisitive…" Riddle murmured, and Salomé's breath caught for a moment. Did he perhaps suspect her? Was he suspicious of her questioning, registered the recurring direction of her queries? He'd never indicated any suspicion such before. "But if you must know… no people, no. You are the one that is my most prized possession in such a category."

In a lover, perhaps the words would have been endearing and filled with affection. Not from Riddle, however. There was such emphasis upon the term 'possession' that it was impossible to hear anything else. To Riddle, it was not a turn-a-phrase, a slip of the tongue; he honestly perceived Salomé as nothing more than a that. Understanding had long-since made itself clear to her, but it was still sickening. "Not people? Am I to contest with inanimate objects, then?"

She forced sleepy petulance into her tone and it seemed to have the desired effect for Riddle drew a hand to her head and actually stroked her hair. Awkwardly, and a little painfully with the sharpness of his nails that scored across her scalp, but it was a caress all the same. Or, more correctly, petting. "Hm, your jealously is certainly sparked tonight." He sounded all too pleased for the fact, even in his dozing state. "But if you must know… yes, inanimate objects. _They_ are my most prized possessions. And you will do well to learn from my experience, my dear. People are changeable and unreliable; they do not deserve trust and faith as would the enduring stability of an artefact."

Salomé didn't need to ask to know what he was talking about. Of course the Horcruxes would be his most prized possessions. She had come to realise as much in her hunts for the artefacts; Helga Hufflepuff's cup in the Lestrange vaults would have been unexpected if not for the fact that she had already destroyed the locket of Salazar Slytherin. A locket she had discovered with the happened-upon information of a one Regulus Black. It was his journals that had led her first to Riddle's hidden cave and then to Kreacher in the first place.

Had he been alive, Salomé would have thanked the man. Or perhaps he would have thanked her? Kreacher had certainly been profuse enough in his gratitude when she had destroyed the trinket.

 _Two I've destroyed and three destroyed by Dumbledore._ The words echoed in Salomé's head, a repetition of those that had drifted on the edges of her awareness for days. _Including those Riddle has used himself… I have to be almost there. He couldn't possibly have more and still be sane enough to speak. I must be nearly there._

In her mind, Salomé had only to find a final Horcrux. One more of his most coveted items, six of which she had identified in total. One more of the pieces of his soul to unearth and eradicate from the world like an inkblot beneath a _Scourgify_.

It was _those_ items that he held nearest to, if not his heart – for he was certainly without one – then at least the black abyss that was the shadow of one. For what more would Riddle prize than himself? Than the pieces of himself? He was certainly egotistical enough for such. It was all that which Salomé had heard before, and yet she did not interrupt him, instead letting him continue to talk in his sleepy state. And, after a few moments of near-silent breathing, talk he did.

"Artefacts… and her."

Salomé's breath caught, trapping in her throat. Feeling her muscles freeze, tensing, she strove to enforce nonchalance upon herself. _Her_ … This was knew. She had never heard of a ' _her'_ before. "Her?" Salomé asked with forced casualness.

She was fairly certain she failed in her attempt at blasé, but perhaps Riddle perceived it as a revival of that 'jealousy' he favoured for his deep murmur of laugher sounded again. "There is no need for that, Salomé. I have no inclinations towards an additional bedmate, not even for passing amusement. You are certainly adept enough at sating my desires." He patted her head again, slowly, as though complimenting a well-behaved dog. "No, Nagini does not hold my favour for such purposes. She is… important for other reasons…"

His voice trailed off into nearly inaudible murmurs. He could have even fallen to sleep. Salomé wasn't sure, and in that moment, she didn't know if she cared. _Nagini…_ _Nagini was a Horcrux? Was that even possible?_

Salomé didn't know, but the more she considered it the more she suspected it to be the truth. It was very, very likely, for what other reason would Riddle possibly have for demonstrating such fondness for a snake? He had never expressed a similar tendency towards other snakes, despite his Parseltongue abilities. No more fondness than for another human, at least, which was as good as none most of the time. He had never shown any particular desire to take on a pet or similar companion. He was just as aggressive to animals, took his anger out on them just as dispassionately, as he did upon humans. But Nagini… Salomé had always considered it to be because she was his Familiar, but even then…

Yes. Yes, it had to be. Something about the notion felt right to Salomé. Like a puzzle piece put perfectly into place: Nagini was a Horcrux. And more than that, she could be the _last_ , Horcrux.

Euphoria like none Salomé had ever felt before – _ever_ – flooded through her and it was all she could do to still suppress her excitement. She waited, however, waited until Riddle drifted into a doze, uttering barely a handful of words more before departing from wakefulness into sleep. She would have to be careful, she knew. And she would have to be doubly careful because Nagini was alive. She was living, and she was loyal to Riddle like no other being. She would defend herself for him if need be, Salomé knew.

Perhaps she should wait. That would be the logical thing to do. Perhaps Salomé should withhold from acting, dig more deeply to be _sure_ of her suspicions as she always had in prior instances before she wholeheartedly committed herself to an act that, unless she was especially careful, would get her killed. And she had no intention of dying. Not now. She didn't know if Riddle could kill her – he'd certainly had enough difficulty in the past. She didn't know for sure if he _would_ either, for they were, after all and according to him, soul mates. But she didn't want to test her invincibility. Salomé wanted to _end_ Riddle, to tear apart the man who had stolen so much from her, inflicted so much. The man who was struggling to reduce the world to disaster.

She would kill Riddle. Salomé desire was so profound that she found there was no denying it, not even for a moment. She would kill Riddle, right after she killed Nagini.

And she would do it tonight.

* * *

The door uttered a _snick_ as the latch snapped shut, but Salomé was striding from Riddle's suites before it had fully closed. Hair hung loose with little care, her bodice barely laced, Salomé had departed with all haste from the rooms as soon as she was assured that Riddle had indeed fallen into sleep. Her dark skirts billowed around her legs, flapping like the wings of a bird with each step and nearly catching under her bare feet with every step. She ignored the possibility of tripping; she wouldn't let herself.

It was intentional that Salomé had not worn shoes. It would afford her more stealth. Not from the snake, of course – Nagini would likely become aware of her presence from corridors away – but from potential observers. It wasn't as though Salomé had back up that could assist her in fighting off a wave of defenders. She was alone in this task.

Pulling up short, pausing in step, the thought resounded hollowly in Salomé's mind. Alone. She was alone, and with the potential to have the entirety of Riddle's household fall upon her with the potential snarling direction of its master, such solidarity was dangerous. Fatal even. It had never been a problem before, what with the Horcruxes being firstly objects and secondly stashed in alternative locations, but Nagini was different. Not only was she a permanent resident of the manor and often trailing in Riddle's wake but she was sentient. More than that, she was bound to Riddle as his Familiar. They shared a mental connection, one that would immediately awaken when she was provoked, Salomé was sure.

The situation was looking grimmer and grimmer the longer Salomé contemplated it. Her immediate resolution to hasten to the snake and destroy it and the Horcrux she held faltered slightly as reality instilled itself. Nagini would fight back to the last second. And even after that second, Salomé as her killer would not be out of the flames. Riddle would know. If nothing else, Riddle would know that the snake was dead and it was more than likely that he would know it was Salomé who had killed her. It would be nothing but sheer luck should Nagini not inform him before she perished.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. And dedicated as Salomé was to putting her life on the line for Riddle's destruction, to end the bastard once and for all, she was not prepared to do so for a Horcrux. Not before she even got a chance at the man himself.

Salomé needed back-up. Support, some sort of assistance. It vexed her to acknowledge as much, but it was true. And given the circumstances, given _Salomé's_ circumstances, there was little by way of allies that she could claim. At present, the Order of the Phoenix were only marginally better than the Dark wizards and witches she found herself entangled with most of the time for their distrust. Slightly better, but... No, even being Salomé's past friends as they were, she couldn't trust them to stand by her side, not when they were still obviously so wary of her. She had seen it in their eyes, in their awkwardness around her. She couldn't blame them, really, but it meant she certainly couldn't hardly rely upon them.

Despite Dumbledore's suggestions that they work together, she didn't trust them in return. She suspected would be as likely to lump her in with the rest of Riddle's malevolent followers as to work with her. Even her old friends were questionable. No, Salomé couldn't trust them. She couldn't rely upon any of them, not yet and perhaps not ever. There was no one she could –

Cedric.

The thought arose from nowhere yet echoed as though through from a shout. Cedric was different. For whatever reason, Salomé knew he was different. It had nothing to do with his proclamations of loyalty, that he'd disregarded any and all other orders and direction, both from Riddle as his employer and from the Order of the Phoenix. It wasn't that Salomé had, somehow, somewhere along the way, grown almost… almost _fond_ of him. It wasn't even because he had defended her on multiple occasions before, even against her express direction not to do so.

No, it was not because of any of that. Salomé didn't know the reason, couldn't pinpoint exactly why Cedric was the exception. But somehow she knew that, if there was one person she could rely upon to act in her favour, to help her, to never gaze upon her with wariness and grasp a knife with the intention of stabbing her in the back, it was Cedric.

It was impossible, such confidence after such a short time of knowing him. But it was true.

Thinning her lips, vexed at the foolishness of her ridiculous trust and the necessity of having to act upon it, Salomé clicked her tongue for a moment before slipping her wand from the sleeve of her robes. Drawing upon her memories – it was a struggle these days, but she managed – she called her Patronus into existence. The hulking, long-limbed and blurrily speckled crocotta coagulated in an accumulation of fluttering, white-blue wisping light. Prowling like a caged tiger, it circled her once before pausing at her side. Its ears pricked attentively, pale eyes meeting Salomé's unblinkingly at almost equal level.

Casting a quick _Invenitio_ for privacy, Salomé directed her words towards the creature as though it could actually hear her. Which, given that it was an extension of Salomé herself, it did. "I've a message for you." The crocotta tipped its head obligingly, urging her to continue. "Cedric Diggory: my mission is all but complete. I seek now what I believe to be the last in my hunt. Should you find yourself so obliging, I would… appreciate your assistance in the matter. I fear that my impending and necessary escape may be hindered as the singular aggressor that I find myself." She paused, biting her lip for a moment with a frown. "Cedric, I believe that I may be in need your help."

It almost hurt to say the words. They sounded so wrong, rung discordantly in her ears like an un-tuned instrument. But aversive as they may sound, Salomé knew she had chosen right to so request. She had never asked Cedric's help before, not at all. Accepted it when forced upon her, yes, if somewhat begrudgingly, but to ask? Never.

He would surely become aware of her urgency for such bluntness.

Nodding her head curtly, Salomé swept her wand in a directive gesture. Bowing its head, her crocotta spun on its heel and loped down the hallway before her. It moved faster than was possible, even accounting for the length of limbs and extension its strides, but then that was simply the nature of a Patronus. Within moments it swept around the distant corner and disappeared.

Salomé set off once more. The Privacy Charm dissipated with her passage.

She should wait. She knew she should wait, at least for Cedric's reply if not his physical presence. But after acting already, after bending her spine to request help and delaying her progress as much as she had already, Salomé couldn't pause again. Her feet moved with a will of their own, driven by a sore and desperate need.

Her one desire, her escape and impending freedom clasped in Riddle's clutches, was so close she could almost taste it. It was sweet and salty all in one, even the sole prospect flooding her senses intoxicatingly. That she would, at the earliest possible moment, complete her goal by destroying him entirely was the savoury and long-awaited morsel atop her Huntress's Banquet. It was all she could do not to run, and she'd be damned if fear and hesitancy waylay her further.

Nagini was her target, the giant predator now become prey.

Dark, empty hallways peeled past almost without notice. Stairways were descended in rapid steps, one after the other. Salomé ploughed through almost blindly, her eagerness making her foolish until sense instilled itself and she took a moment to cast a personalised 'Point Me' Charm to direct her to the snake. Her wand jerked and jiggled before urging her forwards. And on Silenced feet, Salomé set off once more.

It was in the darkest recesses of the Manor that she found her, floors beneath ground level in the largely forgotten depths of the building. Salomé didn't find her immediately, but with the nature of the Directional Charm it warmed slightly with her proximity. The sconces on the walls, once glowing candles in elaborate holders, grew more and more distant. The rooms she passed grew similarly distantly spaced, their doors darkening as the lights dwindled for the shadowy, secretive grain of the hardwood as much as the dimming of the lights. The depths of the manor were nearly impossible to perceive.

It was cavernous. That was the impression that Salomé was afforded, and she had been in her fair share of caverns in her search for Riddle's Horcruxes. Even had she not been directed by magic towards Nagini, she believed she could have guessed the snake would have secreted herself so deeply. Nagini disliked the muddle of humans that swept through the upper floors of the manor, Salomé knew. Not that she cared about the her uneasiness around anyone except Riddle, but she couldn't help but notice. Nagini loathed the Dark witches and wizards of Riddle's servitude almost as much as Salomé did.

Her wand almost hummed when Salomé turned a final corner to slip into a corridor with only a single door at its end. Partially opened, the sliver of even deeper blackness within was like a glimpse into the abyss. Foreboding but also enticing. Barely breathing, Salomé silently edged towards it.

 _Lumos_ illuminated the snake. In a room empty but for a misshapen pile of pillows heated by a Warming Charm, Nagini coiled at the very centre. Her flat black eyes, as emotionless as Riddles, turned towards Salomé without a hint of surprise. She'd likely been staring at the door since Salomé had descended the final staircase corridors away. As Salomé stepped further into the room, her body taut with wariness, the snake similarly curled even tighter. The folds of her coils slipped in slick slithers over one another, the only sound in the room. Without pausing, in a fluid motion, Salomé raised her wand.

The light of Cedric's Patronus was a beacon to Salomé's candle, snapping her attention to it in an instant. Like a cymbal clash into silence, the wraith-like figure of a wolf burst through the half-opened door behind her. Not quite as tall as Salomé's crocotta, it was still an immense figure. Its hackles stood raised at the back of its neck, mouth hanging open and tongue lolling. Its tail swished like the twitches of a cat.

To the accompaniment of Nagini's hiss, Cedric's voice seeped from its parted jaws. "Salomé, wait! Please, hold off your attack until I can accompany you. It's not safe; you know it's not. They will descend on you like a horde of bees upon an attacking wasp. I'm on my way to you now. Don't act rashly."

Something that sounded almost a growl drew Salomé's attention from the dissipating wolf-Patronus. Turning sharply back towards Nagini, her eyes narrowed at the sight of jaws stretching into a wide yawn, coils tumbling over one another in tangling roils. She drew backwards, hissing fiercely and rearing like a cobra. Salomé knew in that instant that somehow, impossibly, the snake understood. Salomé couldn't speak to her, hadn't been able to speak Parseltongue for years, but whether it was a product of her Familiar bond or some magical nature, Nagini seemed to know she'd been sought for one purpose.

There was no way Salomé could wait. The rearing, the uncoiling, the _threat_. She knew that she would have to kill the snake now. It was now or never. Cedric's cautioning aside, she _had_ to, because if Nagini knew… If Nagini knew, then Riddle would know too.

Nagini's rearing paused. She paused only for a moment before – with the speed only a serpent could attain she launched herself forwards, darting for Salomé. In a heartbeat, Salomé erected a shield. The impact of the snake's nose to her glimmering _Protego_ was explosive. A crack like a wrecking ball into a brick wall shook the room, again when the snake recovered with unnatural speed and struck a second time.

There was no other option. Salomé ran. She did not flee, wouldn't attempt escape, but she still turned leapt from the room because it was _necessary_. Her skirts tripped her briefly onto her knees as she stumbled through the doorway, casting a glance and throwing another _Protego_ over her shoulder as Nagini immediately launched herself after her. Scrambling to her feet and slicing her skirts at the knees, Salomé threw herself down the corridor. The hissing, the slick slap of scales on stone, followed her as Nagini gave chase. Not that she needed the indication. She's known Nagini would follow.

The snake had to die. She had to die fast, and take the Horcrux with her. Salomé knew this, knew she had to act even as she tossed Shield Charm after Shield Charm over her shoulder, sprinting through the dark recesses of the bowels of Riddle Manor. The snake moved impossibly fast, faster than should have been possible. It was only Salomé's hastily erected hurdles that prevented her from falling upon her at all.

 _This will not do_ , Salomé scolded herself as she swung around a corner. She had no idea where she was in the depths of the manor, no clue of what direction she raced. The only knowledge that coursed through her mind was that she needed to run faster, defend herself harder, pump her legs still aching from muscular and feet jarring almost painfully on the stone floors. The thoughts were more intense than those of survival. Her breathing became pants as seconds faded into minutes of sweeping through the manor's labyrinth; she blessed her capacity for wordless magic in that moment. Words themselves would have only drained her further.

She barely thought past necessity. And necessity dictated that she needed to kill the snake.

An opportunity. Salomé needed an opportunity, a chance to retaliate. Whipping around another sharp corner, she erected a shield to the subsequent resounding crash of Nagini into her magical defences. The snake hissed a string of aggressive sibilance, mouth yawning widely. It could have been curses for the ferocity of her sounds. Salomé could almost feel the hateful glare, the accusation in the snake's gaze. She didn't pause to be certain. She only ran.

Distance. Distance to turn, to attack. To strike in return.

Even the light of intermittent sconces had disappeared when Riddle's voice erupted through the manor. It seethed from walls, blasted through the floors. It echoed off every surface like a squash rebounding from the walls of its court. Salomé winced slightly as the words speared deafeningly into her ears as though it were shouted right beside her.

_"_ _Salomé! Traitorous wench! You will burn in my Fiendfyre for this. Kill her! Kill her now!"_

_Well, I suppose that eradicates any uncertainty over his potential for hatred of me_. Salomé considered as she threw herself around another corner. Nagini had obviously told him and he'd deduced reality readily enough. Unfortunately.

The corner of a dark, patterned rug nearly tripped Salomé and another flung _Protego_ shield was the only thing that prevented her from becoming snake-fodder. Heart pounding in her chest, gasping from more than exertion and ears throbbing in the aftermath of the resounding shout, she raced down the next darkly lit corridor. The manor was truly an endless pit.

Soul mates. That was what Riddle had said, yet clearly when she threatened him so, that status deteriorated to blood foes once more. It said something that Salomé felt only a hint of regret for the deterioration of her life, of her heretofore ability to urge Riddle unwittingly and infrequently to her bidding. Of everything that she had come to live, even if it was a hated life. Salomé knew that, had she more headspace, reality would have hit her harder.

She didn't. She would contemplate it later. Later, when the pounding of her heart didn't nearly drown out the continued cries of Riddle rebounding through the manor. When her every thought was no longer trained upon urging her legs to move faster, for her feet to spread wings in flight. When the snake was dead.

If the bloody beast would slow enough for her to strike back.

Salomé abruptly knew she had no choice. To avoid had been a temporary course of action, to put distance between herself and her prey. Yet it wasn't working. The distance was not increasing. If anything it was lessening. Flight would not support her endeavour.

And neither would waiting for Cedric. Not now. Not when Riddle was demanding murder, using the very walls of the building as his mouthpiece. The Dark wizards and witches amassed in the manor would be a-riot in their hunt for her, Salomé knew. They would thirst for her blood at a breathed word from their lord and master. All of them; Salomé had no allies in their ranks.

So she stopped. Skidding around a corner she threw herself into a crouch, bare feet sliding on the floor rug that only thinly softened the hard floor. And with wand stabbing forwards, she attacked with a gasping utterance.

" _Diaboli ignis!_ "

Nagini struck. She didn't slow for the corner, didn't pause at the sound of Salomé's shout. The snake threw herself through the flames that erupted from the end of Salomé's wand as though she didn't notice them at all. She ploughed through the eruption of blinding orange-white, the intense explosion of heat that drew Salomé's breath from her like a vacuum. For a brief moment she prevailed, fangs sinking into the soft flesh of her shoulder and her full weight crashing solidly. Salomé was thrown to the ground like a flung doll, crushed by the merciless assault.

Until the Fiendfyre grasped a hold of Nagini and locked its own fangs through glistening scales.

It was ironic, Salomé considered detachedly, that she would kill Nagini with the very spell Riddle's curses announced he would inflict upon her. Ironic too that said fyre took the form of an enormous, fiery snake. As big as a basilisk, bigger, the spurting stream of magical flame that spewed forth in an endless torrent from Salomé's wand illuminated the dark corridor with the blinding vibrancy of the sun. The engorged form ploughed through Nagini like wildfire through paper, only to spread to the walls, clambering along the panelling. The cloying smell of lacquered wood sizzling beneath the consuming power of the curse replaced oxygen in the air that Salomé desperately struggled to suck into her lungs.

It was manic. Fiendfyre was crazed, had a mind of its own. From the two prior experiences she'd had with the curse, Salomé knew this. She knew, just as she understood that her control of the erupting snake would turn upon her with no compunction. The defeater of the foe from which not a scrap remained continued to hunger, to set alight in consuming flames the very walls and floors of the corridor as if it chewed the stone. It, like true fire, held no loyalty to its creator. It simply destroyed.

Salomé's skin felt tight. It was too hot. It _burned_ , even without touching. The pain from Nagini's bite had not registered immediately, but under the throbbing heat and pressure of the Fiendfyre it sparked into sharp relief. From her sprawl on the floor, her skin erupting in thick sweat from the radiating fyre that spread like a coursing river along the corridor in the direction she had come, Salomé struggled to regain her footing. She blessed the offhanded thought to rid herself of most of her skirts; her wavering legs, trembling as she urged them into haste, would not have been able to accommodate their added complexity.

Heaving herself to standing, Salomé stumbled in the direction she had been headed. She spared only a brief glance over her shoulder, another moment to assure herself that Nagini was dead, before falling into a wavering stumble. The fyre painting the dark walls charcoal black, following her as it clambered along the walls in glowing pursuit as though drawn by the last of the spluttered flames that still spat from the tip of her wand. It was an entirely knew kind of snake that followed Salomé as she resumed her flight.

But Nagini was gone. Some part of Salomé's mind that was not becoming increasingly consumed by the growing spikes of pain in her shoulder, the aching burn of the chasing fyre, rejoiced in her success. It had been so short, so simple… Nagini was simply gone.

 _The last one. I swear, if it's the last one…_.

Had circumstances been different, Salomé would have laughed. But a spark of heat that whipped forwards briefly, nearly searing the back of her heels, removed any jubilant humour from the situation. Salomé cursed that she'd had to use Fiendfyre, even knowing as she did that nothing else besides basilisk venom would have been as effective. She had researched Horcruxes long and hard enough to know there was no other option.

More's the pity that she'd killed possibly the only live basilisk in the world six years ago.

The fyre basilisk was destructive in an entirely different way. Salomé was not sure if she was delighted or concerned by the speed at which it chewed through the halls behind her. On the one hand, the potential for Riddle Manor to burn beneath the disastrous effects of Fiendfyre was… intoxicating to consider. Euphoria-inducing. _Delightful_ , even if she knew that somehow, Riddle would manage to get it under control.

But then, Salomé had no idea how far she was from the nearest exit. The Anti-Disapparation jinx, set like a dome over the manor, prevented her from direct escape and even the possibility for relocating to a different part of the estate to escape the fyre – even that was dangerous. Salomé knew not who she would happen across, could be cursed dead in an instant before she got her bearings. Better the enemy she knew, that she could see. That she, even to such a minute degree, held control over, struggling to push it away from herself as she ran. Salomé could only hold hopes that the fyre would remain her reluctant companion for the next few minutes without eating her alive. Just long enough to escape. Long enough to –

_Kill Riddle?_

The thought overwhelmed even the climaxing pain of venom that was seizing Salomé's shoulder, the aching of over-sensitive feet slapping on thin rug turned fiery hot as she pounded through the corridors before her train of fyre basilisk. How she _longed_ to kill Riddle. It gnawed at her with a physical need. Perhaps she could –

" _Filpendo!_ "

The attack struck Salomé as she vaulted up the last few steps of her second ascended stairwell. It was only a blessing that when she fell it was forwards, tumbling head over heels in a humiliating display of inelegance Salomé cared not a wit for in that moment. She rolled like a smashed bowling pin, jarring elbows and sending another lance of pain through her injured shoulder as it briefly bore her weight.

It was perhaps for the best, however. Or perhaps her fyre responded to the attack. For as Salomé slid to a stop, she felt a dragon's breath blast of heat scorch the air above her head as the fyre-basilisk whipped overhead. Throwing her arms in a painful twist over her face, she ducked beneath the abusive radiation of the curse-fire.

A scream, half anger and half terror, was cut short with a shout of _"Protego!_ " Eyes squeezed shut, Salomé froze, body tensed as she curled in the middle of the floor. She could hear the sear and crackle of her fyre, the hollow echo of its strike to the Shield Charm. She could smell the pungent aroma of the thin rug beneath her, half of it burned to a cinder where not completely vanquished by the fyre basilisk's passage. It was highly probable that she burned just as fiercely; her skin certainly felt as much, couldn't even sweat for the intensity. Only detachedly, Salomé felt the retreating tidal wave of that fyre as it rebounded back over her head as though tossed back the way it had come.

In an instant, the second the fyre passed, Salomé had drawn her wand and, before she even opened her eyes, erected a shield of her own. Just in time, it would seem, as with a reverberation through her bones, she felt another attack impeded by that shield. And another. And another. Too fast to be from the same attacker so there must be more than one.

And finally peeling her arms painfully from her face, clawing herself into sitting and straining to withhold the returning, onrushing wave of Fiendfyre that had recovered from its rebound, Salomé saw them. Loren and Jemima. For the first time in perhaps ever, two apprentices were cooperating. And of course it would be to bring Salomé down.

Jemima's plain, round face was twisted into a snarl of hatred, of fury and indignation. Her wand held aloft, she stood poised like a sword-fighter, as though she held an epee rather than a rod of wood barely longer than her forearm. Loren at her side showed the most expression that Salomé had ever seen on his sharp face. His eyes were narrowed, a twitch tugging at his prominent nose and teeth bared.

Angry. Yes, they were certainly angry, and that anger was directed entirely at Salomé. How _dare_ she think to act against their master? Salomé doubted they even knew exactly what she had done, could wager they didn't, in fact. But to act against Riddle? It was sacrilege to the most profound degree.

Struggling against the thrashing demands of the Fiendfyre behind her, Salomé clambered to her feet to face them. Her legs trembled, the strain from earlier that evening, from the exertion of her run, from the seeping of venom that steadily spread through her body but she _refused_ to acknowledge. Dizziness captured her briefly but she thrust it aside, smothering it alongside the throbbing in her temples, the pulsing flashes of painful heat through her shoulder. She affixed the Apprentices with a cold glare.

"Looking a little the worse for wear, Salomé," Jemima sneered. Her lip curled even more impressively in an all-too-familiar expression. "Look at you. You can hardly stand on your own two feet."

"Lucky for me, I don't need to be standing to annihilate you, Jemima," Salomé replied. She cringed internally at the hoarseness of her voice but didn't let her discomfort for the sound allay her.

Jemima hissed angrily. "You actually think you have a chance of facing me? _Me?_ You certainly do have an inflated ego." She scoffed with little real humour. "I've no idea from whence it came. Do you think that our master's favour affords you leeway?"

"Even should it, such exalted status exists no longer," Loren murmured at her side. Jemima, for perhaps the first time ever, actually nodded her head in agreement with his words.

Struggling once more with a sudden increase in her Fiendfyre's aggression behind her – she felt like a handler straining to withhold a baying hound at the end of its stretching leash – Salomé turned towards him instead. "You believe me exalted?"

"No longer," Loren specified, eyes narrowing further.

Salomé shook her head, condescension just barely attainable through her rising exhaustion. "You are sorely deluded, Loren, if you believe _anyone_ should wish to have such favour. None would desire to hold the attention of his esteemed majesty that I have so held."

"How dare you," Jemima seethed. Even from the distance of nearly ten metres, even in the black, white and red planes of half-shadow that the fyre afforded, Salomé could make out the spittle that flecked her lips. "How dare you even –"

"Are you finished?" Salomé interrupted, biting down on the waver in her voice. "Because I, unlike some, have places to be. Should you wish to continue talking, could you do so in my absence?"

Her nonchalant attitude was only barely clung to. Salomé knew that she couldn't hold out much longer, both physically and magically. The trembles in her body were growing only more profound – she was almost certain that the two apprentices could see them – and her tenuous grasp on the Fiendfyre was growing weaker by the second. She could only hope to escape the witch and wizard barring her way before she collapsed entirely. For all of her posturing, Salomé knew she would not be capable of standing up against them. Not now.

Jemima stuttered to a halt at the interruption. In the fiery glow of Salomé's basilisk, her cheeks flushed furiously. "You pathetic, presumptuous, slimy little leech. Our master should have destroyed you years ago."

"Are you questioning Riddle's intelligence, Jemima? Perhaps querying his actions?" Salomé tutted. "Dear me. What would he think of your lack of faith?"

Jemima snapped. She had always had a short fuse, even more so with Salomé than with anyone else. Jealousy, Salomé suspected. Misguided given what she was jealous of was the 'favouritism' that Salomé received from Riddle, but irrational as she was that jealousy had only grown over the years. She'd snapped before and when she did it was always explosive.

It was no less this time. In a series of slices, hashing across the air before her, Jemima loosed a torrent of curses. Reactively, Salomé threw up her shields. The explosion of magic in an array of colours and clashing sparks, was nearly opaque in its brief suspension in the middle of the corridor.

Loren was right behind Jemima. Though not as impulsive as the witch, Salomé knew that any criticism of Riddle would induce similar fury in him. His magic was more focused, more direct. After only moments of battering at her shields, Salomé knew it was his magic that was lynchpin that shattered her defences.

They punctured like a balloon beneath a needle.

There was only one thing Salomé could do. She knew she would lose, knew that should she attempt to fight back with curses and counter-curses she would be defeated in seconds. So she didn't fight. She didn't attempt to erect another shield. In a motion that, later, Salomé would not have been able to deduce was intentional or simply collapse, she dropped to her knees in a crack of bone on hard floor. Sparing a desperate thought that her tenuous control still held, she let loose her basilisk.

It cascaded forwards. With the rush of a crashing tsunami, the name-like Fiendfyre rolled over her head and ploughed towards the apprentices. Salomé could feel the heat of its passage singe at her hair and lick at her skin, but only barely. It was loosed, liberated, and the full force of its unrestrained power arced forth. It was all she could do to erect the thinnest of shields above herself to deflect the worst of it

The Shield Charms erected by Jemima and Loren held. Briefly. Fiendfyre was not like most curses. It was unlike even the Unforgivables, despite being on par in brutality. It was pure, destructive magic, like long-sleeping molten magma drawn from beneath the earth and erupting from the apex of a volcano. The energy that drove its action was unrestrainable. It had been at suppressed by Salomé's hand for too long to hold back. As she forsook her control, laid bare the expanse of the corridor as victim to its whims, the Fiendfyre consumed.

Smallness. Obscurity. Dismissal. That was what Salomé strove for. Curling to the floor, Salomé pulled the last of her magic around her and shrouded herself in protection in barely more than a second, magical skin. Her reserves were too scant to manage more. The sheer amount of power required to maintain even temporary control of Fiendfyre was exhausting. Debilitating. Salomé, arms flung once more over her head, squeezed her eyes closed. _Maintain, persist, please hold on, just for a little longer…_

She didn't know what she waited for. Didn't know for sure that, should she simply hold out for long enough, the Fiendfyre would either burn itself out or disappear in its hungry chase to another hitherto untouched part of the manor. But Salomé had no other choice. All she could do was endure. She couldn't even bring herself to glance around herself to perceive her situation; the lingering, searing heat was suppressing of the urge well enough.

When hands grasped her shoulder, Salomé lashed out. It was so surprising, so unexpected, that reflexive, aggressive defence was the only response she could make. Biting back a cry at the pain of contact to the throbbing snakebite, Salomé half-rolled and flung her arms in a physical attack to her assailant. Magic was beyond her, at least for the moment. The wand clasped between her seized fingers was nothing more than a useless stick.

Her hand struck flesh in a snap that elicited a grunt. Salomé didn't have time for satisfaction, didn't have the headspace for it, but instead, blinking her eyes open blurrily, kicked her legs towards her attacker alongside her fists. She would likely have connected, even possibly done damage too, had Cedric's cry not paused her motion.

"Salomé! Wait, please, it's me!"

Her blurry vision cleared only slowly to the persistence of rapid blinking. Still tense, still wincing beneath the grasp of hands clasped on shoulders, Salomé gradually felt her adrenaline descend from its reflexive heights.

The first thing she registered was Cedric. He consumed most of her field of vision, crouching down where she slumped on the ground, and for a moment she couldn't draw her attention from him. His face was pulled tight in an expression she hadn't seen before, peering eyes blown wide and eyebrows drawn in a sharp, wrinkled bridge above them, lines evident around his mouth and lips pulled so thin as to be nearly absent entirely. He looked deathly pale beneath the thin sheen of sweat that smeared across his cheeks, though that might have been simply because of the sudden darkness of the corridor.

For it was darker, Salomé realised detachedly. Perhaps not as dark as the rooms buried deep beneath the manor, but certainly darker than it should be. She'd hardly even realised that torches had lined the walls; they'd been negligible when compared to the sheer, glowing vibrancy of the Fiendfyre, but they had been there.

No longer. Not even elaborate iron candleholders remained hanging on the walls. There was not a scrap of charred remains, not even a hint of ash. Instead, painting the walls like a grim mural and replacing the immaculate, glossy panelling, streaks of blackness drew morbid fingers in black. Speckles of embers, the last of the otherwise disappeared Fiendfyre, dotted the walls like pinpricks of starlight on a clear night. It was from those embers, pulsing in a visible heatwave, that the warmth persisted to seep.

But the basilisk of fyre? Gone. And with it any trace of the apprentices.

Turning slowly back towards Cedric, Salomé blinked up at him. Her body sagged slightly, and she was at once grateful that, for all the shooting pain that his firm grasp elicited through her shoulder, he held her upright. Perhaps unintentionally, yet he did all the same. "They're gone?"

"Who?" Cedric's voice was nearly as hoarse as Salomé's own.

"The Apprentices. Loren and Jemima. Are they…?"

Cedric stared at her unblinkingly for a moment longer before, as though with a physical effort, he drew his attention to the rest of the corridor. Only briefly, however, before he affixed her with his full attention once more. "I didn't see them."

Salomé closed her eyes. It was that or flinch in distaste. More than likely their absence only meant one thing. Salomé sincerely doubted that they would have fled and left her alive. She doubted they would have even been able to flee from the speed of an unleashed, chasing fyre-basilisk either.

Dead then. Salomé clenched her teeth tightly. She didn't like death. Accepted it, yes, but approved? Never. She could live with it, could at times even see it as a necessary evil that was in many ways a mercy when faced with other less conclusive punishments, and yet she would never revel in it. Salomé would never disregard life, think it any less valuable than it was. Disliked though the two apprentices had been, hated even, she didn't long for their death. She didn't _want_ to kill anyone.

No one except Riddle, that was.

Resolutely thrusting her regrets to the side for later consideration, Salomé drew herself away from Cedric. On arms that trembled as though under the effects of a violent quake, she propped herself in sitting before slowly, gradually, heaving herself to her feet once more. A glimpse down at herself, at her swaying body, drew a grimace. Her legs, bared to above her knees, were streaked in soot as thickly as the walls. The tatters of her skirts hardly warranted the word 'tatters' for their state. It might have been the continued blurriness of her eyes but Salomé could swear that she even smoked slightly, her skin slightly charred. It _hurt._

Cedric rose to his feet alongside her. His hands didn't hold her for support, but the twitching Salomé noticed in his fingers suggested he was on the verge of doing so. Or perhaps of offering. Yet he didn't. Despite the worry on his face, the distress that only mounted with every passing moment, he didn't voice his concerns. Nor did he express any ounce of resentment that Salomé had acted before his arrival, even against his express cautioning. Cedric was just like that. It was another thing she liked about him, she pondered hazily.

"I need to get to Riddle," she said. Or muttered, for her voice was still a hoarse whisper that stung her throat with speech. The stare she turned upon Cedric brooked no argument.

Not that Cedric heeded her. Shaking his head, he took half a step towards her. It was an invasion of personal space but for whatever reason it didn't bother Salomé nearly as much as it should have. "You can't do that."

"I can't not –"

"You mean to kill him?"

Salomé paused, narrowing her eyes. "Of course."

"And how do you think you will do that? He needs to die – of course he does – but how will you do it?"

Muted in surprise, Salomé blinked. She'd expected that he would urge her otherwise, perhaps to find another solution to violence. To encourage her towards the preservation of life, despite it being Riddle's, or perhaps to leave the situation in someone else's hands. Any of those arguments could have been anticipated, for although Cedric's beliefs that Riddle must be removed from power aligned with her own, she had always seen it as a necessity of those of the Light, of Cedric himself, to promote the pacifist approach. To spare even their worst enemies from death if possible.

Clearly, she'd been wrong.

"The how is of little consequence," Salomé finally replied, her words long and slow in wary contemplation. "I will kill him with my bare hands if I must."

"I've no doubt," Cedric said, and in spite of what Salomé had deduced was concern, in spite of the overwhelming worry that thrummed through every plane of his body, he sounded almost amused. Certainly entirely sincere. "And I'm sure you would most likely have to."

"What do you mean?"

"You're dead on your feet, Salomé," Cedric said. He nodded his head towards her as though she might have misunderstood the reference for his words. She didn't give him the satisfaction of glancing down at herself once more. "I've no doubt you would fight to the death, but it's my hope that it wouldn't come to that."

"I'm more than capable of –"

"I know you are," Cedric interrupted her. "I know you're capable. You'd have to be just about the most capable person I've ever met." He smiled tightly. "But I don't want you to kill yourself to prove it."

Salomé slowly folded her arms, ignoring the searing twinge of her shoulder that almost made her drop her arm once more. She lifted her chin objectionably and it took far more effort than she would ever admit, even to herself. "I will not kill myself. I have every intention of surviving that monster."

"I'm gladdened to hear it," Cedric said with a nod. "But leave it for another day. I've to wonder if we'd even survive to escape this place without killing Riddle."

"You are more than welcome to leave," Salomé said. She had to draw her eyes from Cedric's that sharpened them.

"I'm not leaving without you."

"Your loyalty does you proud, Cedric," she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster, "but it is unfounded. And unnecessary. I never asked you to –"

"No, you didn't. I chose to remain by your side. And I will continue to, even if you maintain that you won't flee despite my suggestions. Even if it meant that escaping, even if only temporaryily, would have you returning stronger and more capable of victory."

"Don't treat me like a child, Cedric. I don't need such condescending encouragement." Salomé could hardly even summon the energy to put affront into her tone. In that moment, despite her protests, Salomé knew Cedric had won. Or at least that she had ceded to his opinion.

She tried not to consider that a primary reason for that allowance lay in that she knew Cedric was genuine. That he would indeed walk through death's door with her should she seek to travel through herself. In spite of herself, in spite of the fact that she _knew_ she shouldn't put other's priorities before her own, Salomé couldn't help but drop her chin to his words.

Cedric shook his head. "I would never belittle you, Salomé. I just don't want you to die." He paused, peering at her for a moment. "It is ultimately your decision, though. I'll stay with you the whole way, even believing our success to be next to impossible."

Shaking her head, Salomé sighed. Her arms dropped, unable to remain folded for even a moment more.

"You are a fool, Cedric Diggory."

A crooked grin curled across Cedric's face, not quite alleviating the worry but not far from it. "I've long since reconciled myself to that fact."

With another shake of her head, Salomé sighed. She had to close her eyes for a moment as dizziness took hold of her once more. "Fine. Fine, we will leave. But I swear, Diggory, if my opportunity is forever lost from this point, I blame you entirely."

Cedric chuckled, causing Salomé to snap her eyes open once more to glare at him. "Alright. I think I can handle that."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so certain of that," Salomé muttered. But she said no more, couldn't urge herself to breathe another word. Cursing her ill luck, the exhaustion that accompanied her use of Fiendfyre and made the conclusion of her life's goal unfeasible, she fell into a staggering run down the singed corridor. Cedric ran at her side in perfect step.


	11. Bye Bye Beautiful

The damage the Fiendfyre had done was devastating. At least three quarters of every wall Cedric passed was charred to blackness, most of the panelling crumbling to ash in a cloyingly acrid pungency. The endless succession of rugs that covered the floorboards was as patched as a crocheted blanket where they still remained at all and only the dwindling light of the pulsing embers stood in a poor mimicry of where once were candles.

Salomé's magic had been explosive. Not only that but it had persisted and thrived, ploughing through the corridors with single-minded determination. As though it had a purpose. As thought it had a goal in mind, a target it sought. Maybe it did, but when Cedric asked Salomé, she only shook her head mutely. She either didn't know or didn't care.

It was a race, Cedric knew. They were fighting against time in a race to be free of the vast expanse of the manor before Riddle's Dark subordinates honed in upon them. And hone they would, Cedric knew. He'd erected a Hawk-Eye Charm around himself from the instant he stepped onto the grounds; he could feel the movement of other witches and wizards around him as though he had a sixth sense, his awareness extended even through the walls and floors around him. It was because of this more than anything else that he knew they were drawing closer. Cedric was given the uneasy impression that he and Salomé were a pair of fleeing deer being run down by a wolf pack.

When the first opponents were upon them, Cedric reacted instantly. It was at a crossroads, the hallways wider than they had been floors beneath the earth but still just as marred by destruction. Chance would have it that Cedric looked the right way to notice the pair of wizards before they had time to respond. Before he was even fully aware of it himself, his wand had snapped up. An Expulsion Charm springing to mind. The wizards were soaring backwards along the corridor before they'd even flinched, cracking into the far wall with a sickening crunch. Cedric hardly heard it.

Glancing immediately back in the other direction of the hallway to ensure no other threats approached, he caught sight of Salomé. She'd poised herself in readiness, her stance grounded and wide and her own wand held aloft. It was remarkable, and not because of the ferocity of her expression, a ferocity that Cedric had scarcely witnessed before for the aloof mask she held permanently affixed. It was incredible because even to his favourable gaze she looked terrible.

Exhaustion had erased any visible semblance of infallible strength from Salomé. She looked a mess, with smudges deeper than merely ash blotted beneath her eyes, contrastingly flushed and pale beneath the dirt. Her shoulders noticeably sagged beneath robes torn to scraps that barely preserved modesty and her usually perfect curls were a mess of tangles, locks chopped irregularly by the cruel blade of Fiendfyre. Thankfully, Cedric recognised with overwhelming relief, she didn't appear to be burned in any other area. It was hard to entirely discern beneath the soot that smeared her naturally pale skin, but she didn't seem to be favouring anywhere specifically. Except her left shoulder, that was; the way she gingerly raised her fingers towards it every so often worried Cedric immensely. But he didn't ask. He knew Salomé well enough to acknowledge that he would be far more likely to receive a scowl than an explanation.

"What?" Salomé muttered. Despite her near-glare, even her voice sounded weary.

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Salomé's gaze was keen enough that Cedric had to wonder whether she'd lied when she told him she didn't practice Legilimancy.

Cedric shook his head. "Nothing. Only that… you shouldn't be using magic."

"I need to defend myself."

"That's what I'm here for."

Salomé's eyes flashed dangerously and, though he could see it caused her to wince to do so, she folded her arms in a telling sign of disgruntlement. "I'm not incapable, Cedric."

"I know." Cedric nodded. "We've already discussed this. But you are exhausted. If you'd like –"

"I swear to Merlin, if you suggest I should let you carry me one more time, I will hex you right know and leave you here to die." Salomé's glare was fierce, more so than Cedric expected it would be had she replied in kind in alternative circumstances. But she was pushing herself into a visage of strength, of endurance. Cedric could see that. And damn him, he wouldn't force her from it should she find it necessary.

"I wasn't going to suggest that," Cedric lied. He'd asked her twice already, only to receive increasingly heated glares in reply.

Salomé grunted in a clear indication of her disbelief before stepping past him and falling into a slow run in the direction they'd been headed once more. Cedric followed a step behind, struggling to keep his worry from baring itself. Salomé didn't like to be worried over, he'd discovered, and liked even less to be offered assistance. Cedric was surprised, really, that he'd survived with nothing more than a glare at his suggestion for physical support. He'd expected a tongue-lashing at the very least. It was a testament to how exhausted Salomé was that she hadn't bothered.

 _She's fit to collapse_ , Cedric thought, falling prey to his worry as he felt a frown settle on his brow. Salomé did a good job of hiding it but he'd watched her every move for weeks now. He could see the catching stumble in her step, perceived the slight hunching of her shoulders and the almost inaudible hitch in her breath that just faintly gasped. _She can't keep this up much longer. Curse her pride that she won't let me to help her._

Fiendfyre was exhausting. Cedric had never cast it himself but he knew that much. The more uncontrollable the magic, the more tiring it was to breathe to life. It was even harder to instil some element of control upon it. The destruction that Cedric observed around himself, even as they ran through the corridors of the manor, was indication of how much energy Salomé must have thrust into it. Not only was the Fiendfyre fiercely potent but it was refined. Rather than simply spreading _outwards_ as would an uncontrollable fyre, Salomé's curse truly did seem to have purpose. Like a creature racing through the hallways, it had swept down passages and chewed that which stood in its path. Always moving forward but with _intent_. That it persisted in its intent even so long after its initial conjugation… Cedric needn't wonder at all why Salomé was wearied.

They happened upon a witch next. A single witch. Cedric considered he could have taken her down in a heartbeat, even when she was the one to notice them first and loose a hex spiralling through the air. There was no arrogance in his belief; he was Auror-trained, taught to respond with speed.

He didn't get a chance to put those skills into action. Before Cedric had mentally thrown a spell away, the witch was on the ground. A Shield Charm hung suspended in the air for a moment longer, quivering with the reverberation of the enemy spell that had struck it. As he watched it rapidly faded into disappearance, he glanced towards Salomé.

She appeared to have visibly paled in the seconds since he'd last spared her his direct attention, and yet even with such evident exhaustion, she stood tall. Her legs barely trembled, her gasp around her lowering wand tight. Noticing Cedric's attention, she lifted her chin slightly. "What?"

Cedric only shook his head in reply. Nodding curtly, Salomé spun from him and started off once more. Though she must have been even more tired than before for the rapid defence, her step was faster than it had been, as though she was trying to prove that the use of her magic had not affected her at all. Cedric kept his lips firmly pressed; he wouldn't impinge upon Salomé's perseverance simply for practicality's sake. If she wanted to believe that she could handle the magic, he would let her. Besides, he knew the power of resolution. If Salomé thought she could persist, then she would.

Seven more times they were confronted. Each time, Cedric leapt to impregnable defence and aggressive offence with more speed than he had been taught was realistically helpful. He reacted more than he considered, letting instinct respond for him. He had to, for even a split second of delay would mean Salomé acted herself. Cedric couldn't allow that. She'd run herself to exhaustion before allow herself to be a victim of magical attack. She held on by the skin of her teeth and twice it was Salomé before Cedric that rebuffed their assailants.

Incredible. Even exhausted, even wavering on her feet, she somehow managed to defend herself, to retaliate. Almost surprisingly, it was never to kill. It would have almost been easier to simply kill than to disable, but Salomé blasted witches and repelled wizards and always left them breathing.

Cedric didn't think he'd ever admired her more than for that.

The hallways had widened to the indicative ground level dimensions by the time Riddle's voice began its mantra once more. It rebounded off the stonewalls and panelling, muffled not in the slightest by the tapestries adorning those walls, nor thick rugs only sparsely singed that would otherwise have bared polished floors.

 _"_ _Useless fools! Bring her to me_ now _!"_

Cedric turned his head to glare at the omniscient-apparent voice overhead, the voice that battered at his mind, as though the force of that glare could pierce through ceilings and thick floors to spear the man in his room on the fourth floor. If Riddle was even in his room still. It was more than likely that he swept like a archangel through the halls in pursuit of his prey.

"Well, at least he's no longer demanding my instantaneous death," Salomé murmured at his side.

Cedric's glare dropped instantly as he turned towards her. He kept pace with her, letting her set the speed; they'd slowed to barely a trot now, but the periodic sidewards glances she gave him forbade Cedric from mentioning the fact, let alone offering assistance. "What do you mean?"

"Were you not here to hear his initial glowing orders?" Salomé replied sarcastically. At the shake of Cedric's head she rolled her eyes. He got the impression the gesture wasn't meant for him, however. "He wanted me dead. From the second that he – that Nagini – knew I sought her to kill her."

"The snake knew?" Cedric asked. He had a surplus of other questions he further wanted answered that Salomé had barely hinted at – how did she discover Nagini was a Horcrux? How did she even know how to defeat a Horcrux in the first place? She had always simply suggested that she 'learned' but never expressly specified _how_ – but Cedric held his tongue. There were better times to ask, and more likely situations where he would be afforded an answer.

Besides, there were more important things to consider. Like the fact that Salomé didn't even afford him an exasperated glance for what he realised was a fairly redundant question. She simply nodded instead, pausing as they had made a habit of doing so to peer around the corner of a corridor. "As Riddle's familiar, I suppose she told him."

"That's inconvenient."

"You're telling me," Salomé agreed, before pushing off from the wall and starting down the adjacent corridor.

_"_ _I will burn you to ash, Salomé! My fyre will make your own seem nothing more than a candle's flicker to my bonfire."_

_"_ _Stop her. Bring her to me. I will deal with her!"_

_"_ _Your breaths are numbered, Salomé. Enjoy the flavour of air while it lasts for you won't get the pleasure of its taste for much longer."_

Again and again Riddle's words sliced through the air. They must have been mentally conveyed, magical, for even cupping a hand over his ear as Cedric attempted didn't dampen the booming volume. Salomé hardly seemed perturbed, only offering another eye roll as she and Cedric stepped around their latest opponent. The dark-haired witch twitched in her unconsciousness. "He's getting more imaginative. Eloquence is always worrisome with him. It means his anger has become more cold than hot."

Cedric nodded. "No mercy, apparently. You should be _very_ afraid." He kept his tone forcibly casual, despite the tightening in his gut.

Salomé snorted softly, as much an indication he'd been successful in his attempts at light-heartedness as anything. "I suppose our 'star-crossed relationship' truly was only a temporary state." Her lips quirked, considering. "Not that I can particularly blame him. I have been gradually obliterating his soul."

"You think he's aware the other pieces are destroyed?"

Shrugging, Salomé paused before a 'T' section of hallways. She glanced one way, then the next before murmuring, "I know where we are now. This way." She beckoned Cedric, who was fairly certain he knew their location too but couldn't be sure given the almost identical décor in every hallway. Salomé took a moment longer before replying to his question, though Cedric thought it as much to regain breath as to think of a reply. She was almost panting now. "If Riddle is unaware of the destruction of his Horcruxes, he will be soon. I'm sure of that. He would have been able to deduce the reason behind my killing of his snake." She paused, before saying in a low voice, "Unfortunately, he is not a fool."

The words seemed an ominous prophecy. Cedric felt a shiver dance along his spine at the thought.

It vanished into loathing an instant later, however, when Riddle's voice resounded through the air once more. _"I know where you are, Salomé. I will always find you. You cannot escape from me, and when I have you in my grasp once more you will be begging for death long before I allow it."_

A growl slipped from Cedric's lips, yet unexpected as it was he felt no need to suppress its arousal. The bastard. Cedric would let Salomé have at the man first – she deserved it – but should anything, _anything,_ change her mind, leave her inclined to avoid the act of killing him herself, he vowed he would do so for her in a heartbeat. It was almost a blessing for the monster that he was not before Cedric in that moment; he was sure he could have annihilated him even without his wand, and with relish.

" _Fuck_."

The harsh word was barely more than a whisper but it snapped Cedric from his hate-flooded stupor. Eyebrows rising incredulously, he turned towards Salomé. "What –?"

"How could I have forgotten? How is that even possible?" Salomé's scowl was entirely self-directed and she was almost stamping her feet in frustration as they ran. She looked on the verge of smacking her head with her own hand. As it was, she merely pressed the heel of her palm to her temple. "Merlin, what a…"

"What is it?" Cedric asked. He could hear the anxiety in his own voice.

Salomé turned wide, dark eyes upon him. Wider than usual even, and there was a flicker of fear in her gaze. That brief spark was enough to set Cedric's nerves on edge. "I'm bonded to him. Of course he'll be able to find me."

The tightness in Cedric's belly coiled to an almost painful tension. His jaw squeaked with the firmness of his clenching. Before he could comment, however, Salomé was speaking once more. "How could I have been so stupid? I have considered this, over and over. I _knew_ I had to be rid of it before I could escape but I…"

She trailed off with a gasp, pausing in step. This time, she actually did butt her head against her hand. For the first time, Cedric saw her completely removed of masks. She looked very much her age, very much a short, slight, seventeen-year-old girl who had just been presented with an insurmountable task. Her shoulders hunched further in more than just exhaustion, her eyes squeezing shut tightly. Salomé had never looked so vulnerable, not in Cedric's memory, and that made it even worse to witness.

If anything could induce Cedric to thrust aside his own concerns, it was that. Glancing quickly around himself – blessedly, the manor was large enough that they'd been provided with a brief respite from attack – he took a step towards her. Bowing himself slightly so that they were nearly eye level, he raised a hand to her shoulder. Her right one, of course; he wasn't so foolish to touch the other, especially without knowing exactly what was wrong with it.

"Salomé? Do you know what it is?"

She opened her eyes and peered up at him. "What?"

"You know what the bond is, yes?"

Salomé nodded. It was with relief that Cedric noted a hint of condescension rise alongside her desperation. "Yes, of course. What, did you think I would remain ignorant when such a binding was upon me?"

Cedric didn't pause to answer the question. It was likely rhetorical anyway. "And you know how to break it?"

Nodding again, Salomé gradually grew more grounded. Her desperation, though still evident, appeared to come under grips with Cedric's careful, practical questioning. "Of course I do. A Ritual of Fission is hardly unheard of. I- I just couldn't do it until now."

"Because Riddle would be suspicious?" Cedric asked. Salomé nodded. "You think you could conduct a breaking of the bonds? If given enough time?"

Salomé bit her lip. There was nothing vulnerable about _that_ gesture, however. It was considering, determined if anything. "It's not a matter of time – I can do it quickly enough. More is the question of my magical reserves."

"Can you use mine?"

"No. No, I couldn't," she said with a shake of her head. "Not for something so personal. But…" She took a deep breath. "Maybe, if I was in the right place."

"Place?" Cedric asked hopefully.

"Somewhere magically potent. Somewhere that will lend me a crutch without acting for me like borrowed reserves would."

A sound behind him caused Cedric to snap his attention over his shoulder. He peered into the faintly glowing shadows for a moment in an attempt to make out any movement. Nothing. Nothing yet. He turned warily back to Salomé. "You know of such a place that we can get to?"

This time, Salomé nodded her head fervently. Her determination had rapidly extinguished the last traces of fear and replaced them with resolution. Weariness still visibly hung from her like a heavy cloak but she pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin. "I do."

"Then –"

He didn't get a chance to say a word more. Salomé didn't give him another second. Reaching up to the hand clasping her shoulder reassuringly, she gripped his fingers in her own, spun on her heel and took off at a run. A real run this time, as though the prospect of breaking her bond was rejuvenating. Cedric felt like a puppy dragged along on a leash as she charged headlong down one hallway, turned sharply and legged it down the next.

The encountered two more of Riddle's subordinate parties and were exposed to another resounding demand from the man itself – " _Come to me_ now _, Salomé, and I may consider killing you swiftly"_ – before they reached the outdoors. It was like stepping into a cool-room, the chill of the night washing over Cedric like a dash of cold water. The balcony and subsequent steps from the wide doorway were whitewashed and gleaming in the darkness. The night itself was pitch-black, the flat darkness broken only by the bioluminescent flora and the radiance of the half-moon overhead. It illuminated the opaque clouds of their breath. A shiver trembled briefly through Cedric's limbs for the thinness of the robes he wore. A glance to Salomé showed she too was wracked with goose bumps. He cringed slightly at the inadequacy of her apparel once more.

Another sound behind Cedric drew his attention over his shoulder for the umpteenth time. He spun more completely at the sight of a charging wizard. An instant later he'd erected a shield, reflected a curse, and retaliated with a _Reducto_ of his own. The wizard skidded back along the floor in a tumbling roll and didn't move again.

"It's at the end of the gardens," Salomé was saying. She hadn't even glanced behind her at the potential assailant. "This way." And with another tug of Cedric's hand still grasped in hers she drew him down the steps from the balcony into the faintly glowing darkness.

The gardens were as much a maze as the manor, with the exception of being only on one level. The interlaced hedging, however, broken by stunted trees and bushes with glowing, luminescent-green autumnal flowers, made it just as labyrinthine. Pathways abruptly stopped, though Salomé ignored the cessations as often as not, and those paths seeped from stepping-stones of marble to rivers of pebbles and bleached grasses. To Cedric, each step appeared to take them no further, no deeper into the gardens. It all looked exactly the same to him.

Apparently not to Salomé, however. She trotted with purposeful steps from path to connected path as though she knew exactly where she was going. As though, unlike in the manor, she knew each and every turn, each tunnel between hedges with prefect remembrance. At a brief glance over her shoulder towards Cedric, and evidently perceiving his curiosity even through the darkness, she shrugged. "I spend a lot of time in the gardens," she offered by way of explanation.

The best part about the gardens, as far as Cedric could discern, was not the escape they offered from Riddle's voice – proved barely a dozen steps from the balcony to be negligible at best – nor the freedom from the confines of the walls. It was instead that Cedric realised the witches and wizards under Riddle's direction had not yet spread to such a distance. They seemed almost exclusively restricted to the manor itself. Cedric doubted it would last long, especially given that the wizard who had witnessed their departure into the gardens had only been knocked senseless rather than silenced completely. They would have to use their time wisely.

They'd been weaving through the gardens for nearing twenty minutes by the time Salomé final drew Cedric into a modest clearing. It was illuminated by the whiteness of the moon reflecting off a simple white pagoda, off the pale pavers surrounding and leading down to a tranquil pond just as glowing. Ringing the little clearing, a scattering of bioluminescent lowers in blues and purples, whites and soft greens, radiated with light of their own. A speckling of equally luminescent insects, bulbous abdomens as yellow as fluorescent light, danced around one another and skimmed across their reflections on the pond's surface just short of touching.

It was beautiful, but otherwise unremarkable. Except for the fact that even as Cedric felt Salomé drop his fingers, knew that she was hastening into the bond-breaking, he could feel the magic. The air was thick with it, almost pulsing. To Cedric's magical senses it felt gelatinous.

"I can feel it," he murmured, turning slowly on the spot and unconsciously searching for a visible sign of the presence of the magic.

"I would expect you to. It would be more concerning had you not been able to feel anything," Salomé replied. Yet condescending as her words were, she sounded distracted. And that distraction drew Cedric's attention to her once more.

He leapt to her side when he noticed what she was doing. "Stop!" He cried, falling onto his knees beside her and reaching for the wand she held towards the crook of her elbow. Too slowly, however, for the Slicing Charm had already torn through skin and spilled a torrent of blood down her forearm. Cedric watched, horrified, as thick pulses of blood arose and dribbled, trickles as dark as black water in the night.

Sparing only a deterring glance for Cedric, Salomé slapped his hands away. Holding her left arm aloft – and slapping Cedric away once more when he tried to reach for her pulsing wound – she leant forwards and streaked her fingers through the blood.

Cedric couldn't help but utter a warning plea. "Salomé, surely there must be something –"

"Cedric, if you can't sit by quietly without intervening, I will forcibly remove you from my company," Salomé cut him off. The flatness of her brief glance indicated that she would very much stick to her word. She held Cedric's gaze for a moment longer, pinning him with the weight of her attention until, apparently assured of his immobility, she went back to dipping her fingers and subsequently painting the pavers with her blood.

Cedric watched with a mixture of horror and fascination. He had been taught from parents, professors and Auror trainers all that blood magic was a forbidden art. That the use of bodily fluids would make a potion or ritual that much more potent. That the volatility of the use of such substances was as unpredictable as a game of Exploding Snap. As an Auror, it was Cedric's duty to be on the lookout for individuals that partook in blood magic. Not that he could do all that much when they were found other than report the criminals to a dismissive superior; those that were found more often than not had connections in high places, were in some way related to the Darker leaders of political Wizarding Britain or, in some cases, Riddle himself. They would hardly be reprimanded for their behaviour, especially when most had connections themselves on the Wizengamot or the newfound Judiciary.

Everything within Cedric was averse to Salomé's actions, from the act of using blood magic to the fact that she inflicted damage upon herself both physically and through further exhausting herself. In a detached part of his mind, he recognised that it was the latter that concerned him more, yet he could do nothing about it. Nothing for either of his inclinations. Because Salomé would send him from her side should he object once more and though Cedric may be proud, may possess the determination and steadfast commitment to his own sense of right and wrong, such dismissal he could not abide. Remaining by Salomé's side was of the utmost importance. That simple yet complicated fact was perhaps the thing he was most certain of. More certain than anything he'd ever felt in his entire life. It wasn't so much a want but a need.

So Cedric watched. He trained his eyes upon Salomé with the sole intent of ensuring he knew the moment she reached the ends of her energy reserves and required his aid. For he knew it would come. He knew that her magic was spread thin and that necessity dictated she must use it further. There was no way she could _not_ collapse from sheer exhaustion.

Instead of objecting each time Salomé dipped her forefinger into the welling blood in the crook of her elbow, Cedric clenched his teeth. When she scored the thick, dark fluid onto the pavers in arcing lines, ringing herself in a sketchy circle, he dropped to the ground in a crouch five feet away to prevent himself from leaping towards her once more with grasping fingers to stem the pulsing wound. And when she finished her circle and moved onto painting bloody runes inside the line, he bit his lip to keep from objecting once more.

Blood Runes. They were perhaps the most dangerous of all.

Cedric wasn't familiar with many Ancient Runes alphabets. He was even less familiar with the ones Salomé drew; they were not straight and simplistic, nor pictorial and elaborate, but a cursive script not unlike modern languages. Cedric only looked for a moment, though, with only mild interest, before his attention turned once more to Salomé. Did she look paler already?

Whether teetering on exhaustion or not, she persisted. Dabbing at her surrounding pattern of runes once more, pausing to check them with a brief scan, Salomé folded herself into cross-legged seating at the very centre of her rune-embedded circle. With a deep breath, she straightened her back, raised her chin and closed her eyes. In her right hand she held her wand in a loose yet firm grasp. With the other she reached up to her neck, dipping into the folds of her bodice to extract a golden chain. Cedric didn't miss the slight crinkling of her brow as she raised her wounded arm.

A flat, heavy locket, plain and circular, tinkled slightly as it tumbled loose into her fingers. Eyes still closed, Salomé snapped it open with her thumb and, to Cedric's attentive gaze, pulled what looked to be a curl of dark hair from within. The locket jingled once more as Salomé dropped it in favour of crushing her fingers around the hair, squeezing almost hatefully for a moment before reaching forwards and placing it delicately upon the S-shaped rune directly before her.

Hair. It was a primary component of Binding magic, alongside blood. Cedric swallowed down the sour taste that lathered his tongue. _This is necessary. It's necessary. And it's not as though Salomé is the one doing the binding. She's breaking it_. To himself, the words rung true, were steadfast and dismissive of his concerns. It was surprisingly easy to disregard his qualms. The logic that adhered to protocol, to that which Cedric had learned through his training, was brushed aside like a feebly clinging cobweb. It was hardly a concern at all; what was more concerning was the distant calls that Cedric could hear over his shoulder. He spared the direction they had come the barest of glances, but couldn't discern any new arrivals as of yet.

The moment he drew his attention back, the ritual – for that's what Cedric deduced it must be – suddenly picked up its pace. With a sweep of her wand, Salomé muttered a spell beneath her breath and touched it to the bloody circle. A spark of blue-green flame erupted, sizzling with the sound of splitting twigs, and immediately spread around the entirely of the circle. Only the runes were spared contact, just visible behind the ethereal dancing of flames that reached not a handbreadth into the air. To Cedric, still shivering slightly in the cold of the night, the fire felt even colder. It seemed to sap any hint of warmth from the air like a hungry snow demon. Those icy flames cast Salomé into black shadows and contrastingly ghostly paleness.

She reached her free hand up once more. With a vicious tug, she plucked an admirable chunk of her own hair from her head. Eyes still closed and dextrously juggling her wand, Salomé wove those hairs into an intricately cord that resembled a circle of braid tied in upon itself. Placing it upon the rune to the right of the first lock of hair, she tapped first one than the other with her wand, whispering a spell beneath her breath. Both curls of hair blurred slightly, as though seen through fogged glass, until they began to glow in tandem with bright, white clarity. It was all conducted fluidly, Salomé's motions smooth and sure. Cedric had to wonder at how determinedly she'd committed this Ritual of Fission to her mind to be able to act with such certainty, for though she had claimed that it was 'hardly unheard of', Cedric had certainly never encountered it before, let alone witnessed one enacted.

Then Salomé spoke. Her voice, even naturally low as it was, had dropped further in depth. The slight hoarseness that had filled her voice since Cedric had first stumbled to her side at the manor was unidentifiable. Yet when Cedric leant forwards slightly, straining his ears to make out the words she spoke, he realised that, even had they not been nearly inaudible, he would not have been able to make them out. They were in a language unfamiliar to him, though the sounds, the pronunciations and the curl to the accent seemed almost recognisable.

 _Eructavit cor meum, corpus dimisit;_  
Ex libertatis inest fission I, facta est in compedibus pannos.  
Recedite: non est bene quis solvit ... ungues 

She continued, her words fluid and unbroken, another indication of sincere and manic dedication to learning the procedure exactly. Was it Latin? Perhaps Gaelic? Cedric wasn't sure. He spared only a moment for consideration, for when Salomé paused and, to his ears, begun to repeat herself, she began to sweep her wand in elaborate motions. It was, Cedric pondered in his staring attentiveness, oddly reminiscent of the grace she wore when dancing.

Then light flared. It was with even more profound vibrancy than the blue-green flame, than the muted whiteness of the glowing locks of hair. A beacon itself, the glow radiated in a morph of the two colours, creating a blue-white light that beamed like a spotlight into the air. Salomé was nearly lost behind the wall of that light.

It was beautiful, in a way. Wondrous. It was a magic that breathed purity, and though Cedric knew he was likely swayed by prior understanding, by his knowledge of the ritual itself and what it stood for, it looked like… freedom.

Then reality hit him. The beacon was so vibrant and expansive that there was no way than anyone within a kilometre radius could have missed it. Cedric knew the gardens of Riddle manor were extensive, but they weren't that large. Not so deep and buried. Which meant that –

A cry of triumph, expected yet still jarring, resounding through the silence of the glowing gardens. Whipping his head to the direction they'd entered the clearing from, Cedric rose sharply to his feet. His body flowed into readiness, knees bending slightly, shoulders dropping and back straightening. His arms rose widely and he readjusted his fingers on his wand. He didn't know how long Riddle's subordinates would take to reach the clearing but it hardly mattered. He would defend Salomé for as long as was necessary.

As it happened, the ritual was indeed less dependent on time than Cedric had anticipated. Salomé had evidently known that. As Cedric peered with narrowed eyes up the pebbled path leading from the clearing towards the manor, the light directly behind him faded. To the sound of calls and shouts, the ring of Riddle's voice resounding across the grounds with _"Get her! Get her now!_ " the magical whiteness of pure light faded. Within moments it had disappeared entirely, plunging the gardens into darkness broken only by the faint spots of blossoming bioluminescent flowers. They seemed feebly inadequate when compared to the beacon that had briefly manifested.

The echoes of approaching witches and wizards grew steadily louder. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Cedric closed his eyes to vanquish the afterimage of the white light from his eyes. When he opened them, he glanced over his shoulder towards Salomé, assuring himself that his suspicions about the end of the ritual were correct.

The stark contrast of horror, protectiveness and anger jolted Cedric almost painfully. Salomé had finally collapsed beneath the weight of exhaustion. Slumped half across the ashy remnants of the runes and bloody circle, she looked like a limp doll cast aside by a careless child. The blood still pumping with worrying slowness from the crook of her left elbow painted her arm in a sleeve of streaked darkness. The contrast of her dark hair and the scant remnants of her dress to the pavers beneath her was startling, yet less so than the fact that her face, half turned into the ground beneath her, was paler still.

She looked dead.

Hysteria overtook Cedric's mind. Protectiveness didn't even begin to cover what he felt.

Cedric didn't remember how he defeated the witches and wizards that fell upon them. He wasn't even entirely sure if he fought anyone or if he simply fled the scene, Salomé's wellbeing at the forefront of his mind. He had a faint impression of launching curse after expulsive curse towards dark figures as they appeared on the path leading to the clearing, but he couldn't be certain. All Cedric would remember was the pounding in his chest that pulsed a like drumbeat in his temples, of the heat that jumped to icy chillness as aching worry consumed him.

Of the feel of Salomé's limp body as he slung her into his arms. She was small, light and cold. Too cold.

He must have run from the grounds, but he couldn't recall doing so. Cedric would have thought it possible for him to break through the Anti-Apparation wards that encompassed the manor and its grounds, such was the intensity of his desperate need to escape.

The echo of Riddle's scream of hatred and anger, the crushing press of Apparation as he funnelled himself from the hated estate. The weight of Salomé as he cradled her in his arms. They were the only elements Cedric registered before he gave himself up to the magic with only the desperate need to seek help as direction.

* * *

BANG-BANG-BANG!

Cedric could have cursed that bloody door. He did, in fact. Numerous times as his boot struck it at the base. Grimmauld Place was an old estate, ancient when compared to some that shared its proximity. The heavy wood of the carved front door was thick and impregnable. That impregnability was a product of the times when witch burning ran rampant, when the simple barrier of slightly thicker wood could slow the burning of a house or an invasion for long enough to escape the persecutors.

Times had changed, however. Cedric would definitely be suggesting that Sirius install a new door. He'd bloody well put it in himself.

"Sirius, dammit, open the door!"

It was the third time that Cedric had said those words. Said with increasing force, until he uttered in a growling shout more than a request. Each time had been punctuated with similarly increasingly savage kicks to the door. Cedric was not a rude person, nor a demanding one. He'd been told throughout his life than many perceived him as gentlemanly, cordial and considerate. He would never presume to impose his presence upon another individual or their space, not unless necessity absolutely demanded it.

Glancing for the hundredth time down at Salomé in his arms, Cedric knew that necessity had never been more demanding. She hadn't moved except for limp slumps as Cedric ran since he'd swept her into his arms and fled from the manor. Her face was utterly expressionless, slack and half-hidden behind the matted strings of her fringe. The deep slice in her arm had stopped seeping her life blood only because Cedric had taken a split second to patch it up with a Healing Charm seconds after Apparating.

The blood loss concerned him, but not as much as the results of that loss. Salomé wouldn't wake – and given her evident exhaustion Cedric didn't want her to – but more concerning was her absolute paleness. A corpse possessed more life, more colour in their cheeks. Her lips were bloodless and the shadows beneath her eyes more pronounced for her loss of vitality. Her chest barely rose and fell with breaths, and when it did they were hesitant and uneven. It was horrifying to behold, and as his gaze raked over her once more, fingers unconsciously grasping more tightly at her waist, at the back of her knees dangling over one arm, the urgency of his need for help only doubled once more.

His boot smacked against the hardwood sharply enough to jar his toes as Cedric kicked the door once more. "Sirius! I swear, by Merlin, if you don't open this door I'll –"

"You'll what?"

Spinning around abruptly, Cedric nearly sagged with relief at the sight of Sirius halted curiously on the path behind him. He was nearly invisible in the darkness, dark hair and black robes blurring him into his surroundings. What he'd been doing wandering outdoors in the cold dead of night, Cedric didn't know. He hardly cared. Every other concern had taken an extensive step backwards in his consideration.

 _Where have you been?_ was the first thought that sprung to mind when Cedric saw him. _Why are you not here when you're most needed?_ was the second. But some rational part of Cedric mind, some filter, stilled his tongue before he spoke. Such questions were hardly of consequence. They didn't matter. In the whole scheme of things, compared to every other wrong that shrouded Cedric, the ultimate wrong that was cradled in his arms, it didn't matter.

"Sirius. Help."

His tone must have said it all. That or perhaps Sirius' attention had fallen to Salomé curled limply against Cedric's chest. It hardly mattered which, for in an instant Sirius flowed into action. He didn't pause to ask questions, didn't splutter in confusion and expound his worries for the situation. That was one of the things that Cedric found most agreeable about him.

Striding towards him and pausing only for a split second to affix his suddenly fiercely worried gaze upon Salomé, Sirius shouldered through the door. Evidently some recognition charm or other had been in place, for it opened for him. Cedric didn't even have the headspace to be resentful for that fact.

The interior of Grimmauld Place was always dark, always gloomy and more often than not rife with a thin – and rapidly thickening – layer of dust. It was always like that, no matter how Mrs Weasley dedicated her efforts to making the house habitable. The walls seemed perturbed not in the slightest by Sirius' grumblings that it was 'unliveable' and 'Merlin, to only be rid of this place'.

Sirius wasn't grumbling now. He didn't even spare half a glance for the discoloured walls, not a curl of the lip for the faint puffs of dust elicited by his footsteps. He strode purposely through the narrow hallway, leading Cedric with only a glance and a gesture over his shoulder. As he mounted the steps to the upper levels, Cedric on his tail, his bellow rung through the house.

"Molly! Molly, I need you! Now! Second guest room on the third floor." He paused on the landing as they raced up the steps, Cedric taking them two at a time behind him and nearly tripping to a stop. "Now, Molly, now!"

A scuffle from the upper levels was followed an instant later by the distant calls of Mrs Weasley. "Sirius Black, I will not be ordered around by you. It is as much for your sake as anyone else's that I'm ridding this house of cobwebs, dust mites and doxies. If you think I've –"

"Dammit, Molly, this is an emergency. Now!"

It could have been the emphasis on emergency that ceased Mrs Weasley's dispute. Cedric thought it more likely to be due to the urgency of Sirius' voice. Contrary to the harshness of his words, there was nothing but keen worry and something very nearly a plea in his tone. It heartened Cedric none that it reflected his own state of mind almost perfectly.

He followed Sirius into a cold, bare room he'd never stepped into before. It was large, with a single, wide window consuming one wall and a ruddy rug most of the floor. Spartan in its furnishings, it boasted only a bed, a minimalistic fireplace and a wardrobe wedged in one corner, but Cedric didn't think the room was lacking for it. It was, he registered detachedly, perhaps the cleanest room in the house. He unconsciously approved of Sirius' choice.

Cedric had taken less than three steps into the room before Sirius was upon him. Or more correctly upon Salomé. Invasion of personal space restrained him none and he bowed like a sniffing dog over her, eyes narrowed and neck taut with worried tension. "What happened? How did this –? Was it him? He did this to her?" He didn't even glance up as he stumbled through his questions.

Cedric shook his head sharply. "Not now, Sirius. We need to help her before I can explain. I don't even know if I…" He trailed off as fear tightened his throat. He felt useless, incompetent as he never had before. Cedric knew he wasn't a healer, that he couldn't manage spells any more complex than basic first aid. Salomé clearly needed more than that, and not only to heal her physical wounds; the heat throbbing from her shoulder, warming his chilled fingers, was terribly ominous. Magical exhaustion was complicated to battle at the best of times given that many healing charms drew on the magic of the patient. What would happen if the patient didn't have any to spare?

He didn't get a moment more to consider, to work himself into further distress. With her customary bustle, Mrs Weasley in the doorway but moments later. She wore an apron, her hair dusted more with physical dust than the greyness of age, and her wand stuck out from her hip where her hands rested sternly. All severity faded from her expression, however, as Cedric turned towards her and her eyes dropped to Salomé.

Mrs Weasley was a matriarch. She was a carer, through and through. A mother, a supporter, a confident, the one who put a stop to escalating foolishness. And she was a healer, because every upstanding parent in the Wizarding world would know at least the degree of healing that a novice Auror would. At least.

Cedric had counted on that. Not initially, when he'd charged up the footpath to Sirius' door, but from the second the request for her presence had been demanded resoundingly through the house a modicum of relief had welled within him. He could feel Salomé's heartbeat thudding dully against the arm that hooked beneath her shoulders, but only just. Cedrc didn't know how long it would last, and he could do nothing about that.

Mrs Weasley would know what to do. She _had_ to know. The relief that tentatively spread throughout Cedric was that of a lost child sighting their mother. Responsibility was taken from him. Someone else would know what to do. Surely.

Mrs Weasley didn't waste time with idle chatter. She didn't ask questions, demand to know what had happened. Her surprise and immediate worry abruptly snapped to focus with a sharpening of her eyes. Dropping her hands from her hips, she jabbed her wand at the bed in a directive gesture. "Cedric, put her on the bed. Now." Spinning, she swept her wand towards the fireplace. It burst into flames in an instant, crackling to life even as Mrs Weasley turned towards Sirius. "You, to the Burrow. I want my herbalist and medical kits – they're in the top cupboard in the kitchen – and as many medicinal potions as you can carry. I don't care which ones – don't you slow down to check – just grab them all."

She paused as she followed Cedric to the bed, rounding the mattress to the opposite side and bending with all practicality over her charge. She gave only a quick scan of Salomé's limp form splayed atop the blankets efore snapping her gaze up once more. Cedric suppressed a flinch at the intensity of that focus, even if it wasn't directed at him but at Sirius over his shoulder. "And tell Kreacher I want a cauldron of hot, boiled water and as many clean – _clean_ – bandages as he can find. Now."

"I doubt Kreacher will be inclined to help," Sirius muttered under his breath even as he hastily turned towards the door.

"Oh, he will. Tell him it's for the girl and he'll only move faster for it," Mrs Weasley said, dropping her attention to Salomé once more. Her hands already moved to begin sweeping the hair from her forehead, to directing her wand to running Diagnostic Charms. She paused once more in the act, shooting a glare towards Sirius, as he paused in the doorway with eyes fixed on Salomé. " _Now_ , Sirius. I can do very little without my equipment."

Jerking as though struck, Sirius nodded curtly. For perhaps the first time in their entire relationship, he took Mrs Weasley's orders without complaint. His heavy footfalls, fading quickly into running steps, disappeared rapidly. Only the echo of "Kreacher!" indicated the speed with which he jumped to his instructions, and his following orders were too distant to hear properly.

Cedric found himself standing awkwardly to the side of the bed, gaze flashing between an unresponsive Salomé and an intensely focused Mrs Weasley. She muttered to herself as she read the glowing report of the biopsy. The increasing grimness of her face filled Cedric with foreboding.

Vanquishing the letters of light that had suspended before her, Mrs Weasley paused in the act of leaning back over her patient. She glanced towards Cedric, her gaze suddenly wary. "Perhaps you should leave."

Cedric had known what she was going to say before she'd even said it. He was shaking her head before she finished speaking. "No, I'm staying here."

"Cedric –"

"You may need assistance. Some form of support."

"Cedric, you –"

"Besides, I have to be here. Mrs Weasley, I have to be."

The force of his words must have gotten through to her. Mrs Weasley opened her mouth to respond but paused, snapping her jaw shut a moment later. Shaking her head yet not in denial, she sighed. "There's nothing you can do in here, but I won't force you out. You've a right to be here as much as I do."

"Thank y-"

"But for modesty's sake, perhaps it would be best if you simply waited outside."

It was Cedric's turn to snap his jaw shut. Blinking in confusion, he fought to maintain eye contact with Mrs Weasley rather than dropping his attention back to Salomé. "What do you mean?"

"Well, besides the fact that there is little else you can do, I didn't think you'd be comfortable with me undressing her before you," she said with a huff. "And I can hardly see what I'm doing when she's still clad in these sore excuse for clothes, hmm?"

Cedric didn't feel embarrassed. He didn't flush and stutter, mortified at the prospect of intruding upon Salomé's privacy. He wasn't the sort of person to be so affected by the prospect, and the situation basically forbade such foolishness in the face of practicality.

And yet Mrs Weasley was right. There was little he could do and, even disregarding the issue of modesty, he would be more likely to get in the way in that moment. That Mrs Weasley had played upon his sense of propriety alongside everything else, that she urged his removal from the room by targeting multiple angles… he could see what she was doing yet it made him no less susceptible to her suggestions.

Sparing Salomé another long, worried glance, he finally bowed his head. "Call for me should you need anything. If you have any questions, or –"

"Yes, yes, I'll be sure to. Though right now the how of what happened is the least of my concern." The worry in Mrs Weasley's voice mounted with each word. She too had affixed Salomé with her attentive gaze. Cedric could almost see her itching to get to work.

So he left the room. He strode with sudden and brief purpose into the hallway, closed the door quietly behind him and set up a stoic vigil. And an hour later, as he leant against the wall just to the side of the door with arms folded and head bowed, he still waited. He still watched and still remained in a state of worry and high alert. His attentiveness, the racing pace of his thoughts, had slowed none for the wait, even if such a wait seemed at least thrice as long as it truly was.

Sirius had returned with remarkable speed, his arms laden with canvas satchels that smelled strongly of pungent herbs and a myriad of colourful, clinking phials. A train of similar implements followed behind him like flies chasing a sweet scent. The gasping of his breath, the heaving of his chest, suggested he'd run as much as he'd Apparated. He hadn't even spare Cedric a glance as he strode into the room with barely a knock, the door slamming shut behind him and leaving Cedric staring warily at the afterimage of his passage. He was back out again moments later, however, shunted into the hallway with Mrs Weasley's words of, "Don't interrupt me again, Sirius Black, or I swear by Merlin you'll regret it".

Sirius took up his post on the wall opposite to Cedric. Neither had spoken for the entire hour since.

Kreacher stopped by the room too, appearing with more speed than he had possibly ever responded to a request from anyone. Balancing a cauldron atop his head and shrouded in towels and bandages so white they nearly glowed, he hastened towards the room. Cedric just caught the words, "Poor Mistress, poor, poor Mistress, however did she manage to wound herself so?" before he too disappeared through the door. He didn't come back out again, though whether because he departed from the room magically or because he remained to assist Mrs Weasley Cedric wasn't sure.

It could have been surprising, Kreachers eagerness to assist. A curiosity if nothing else. Even with the knowledge of the reason behind his adoration that Sirius had been able to drag from him – it had been, apparently, like pulling hens teeth – that Kreacher so adored Salomé for her actions in 'fulfilling Master Regulus' dying wishes", it was still surprising.

Cedric didn't find it interesting. He had never been less interested in a house elf in his entire life, and he'd never been one particularly devoted to Hermione's periodic attempts at reviving S.P.E.W in the first place. His disinterest, however, lay in the fact that his mind was very resolutely fixed upon trekking the same, weary tracks in endless, unanswerable loops. Cedric was lost to his thoughts, gnawing on his regrets. Regret that he hadn't been faster to Salomé's side, hadn't been able to help her before she'd driven herself to exhaustion. That he could have been the one to cast the Fiendfyre that would, he knew, destroy the Horcrux. It mattered little that Salomé had acted with immediacy purely in her own inclination. Cedric should have been faster.

He was angry at the bond. Furious that Riddle had compulsively bound Salomé to such a degree that it required a Blood Ritual to break the bond. He felt flooded with determination, resolved to end Riddle's existence at the earliest possible opportunity. Never had he desired someone's death before so strongly. Never at all besides the figure of Voldemort himself. That resolution had increased tenfold over the past weeks in Riddle's service, and doubled again in the last hour.

But most of all he worried. Cedric feared for Salomé's health, her magically fatigue, her exhaustion. Would she be alright? Would Mrs Weasley be able to heal her? If anyone could outside of a qualified Healer it would be she, but what if she was too late? What if she couldn't manage it? There was little to no magic in the patient to even utilise, or if there was it was so scant that to draw upon it would likely cause more harm than good.

Yes, it was Cedric's worry that was paramount. Foremost in his mind, it nagged at him like a mosquito in the dark, the buzzing growing in volume and intensity as he became only more hypersensitive to its presence. His ears strained for the slightest sound coming from the room beside him, the quietest hint of a murmur, the second an order from Mrs Weasley would seep into the hallway so that he could jump to her assistance post haste.

Cedric was good at waiting. Usually. That day, he was not so patient.

It was because of his straining attentiveness that, when the door to the guest room clicked, Cedric had started and spun himself into the doorway before it had even fully opened. Mrs Weasley jolted in surprise before setting a scolding glare upon him and folding her arms. She very deliberately refused to take a step backwards, despite the fact that Cedric could tell from the tension in her body that his proximity in looming over her was making her uncomfortable. It took an effort for him to force himself to take a step backwards instead. In doing so, he nearly stood on Sirius' feet, the man pressed close on his heels.

"Well?" Sirius asked, manoeuvring himself around Cedric to stand alongside him. "How – what – how is she?" His voice escalated to near hysteria in barely a heartbeat.

Mrs Weasley's glare disappeared in an exasperated sigh. Shaking her head, she dropped her folded arms and ran the hand not still holding her wand tiredly through her hair. "She's fine. Or at least she will be fine."

"She's stable?" Cedric nearly overrode her with the urgency of his own question. A part of him, the part that strived for correct etiquette and respect, registered that his approach could be perceived as rude. He ignored it. Mrs Weasley didn't seem to care anyway.

She nodded slowly, then with more confidence. "I believe so, yes. I have done all I can do. Anything more will have to wait until she -"

"Can we see her?" Sirius interrupted. He actually shrunk slightly under Mrs Weasley's renewed glare.

" _Until she awakens_ ," she finished with deliberate force. Then, just as deliberately, she turned her attention from Sirius back to Cedric. Apparently their cooperation to reach a mutual goal had only lasted until that goal was fulfilled. "You're more than welcome to see her for yourself if you'd like. I just have to ask you though, Cedric. How much do you know about what happened to her?"

Closing his eyes briefly, Cedric took a deep, stabilising breath. "A little. Less than I would like."

"The nature of her wounds?" Mrs Weasley's voice had resorted to pure practicality. She drilled him clinically.

Cedric catalogued the list he'd compiled in his head over the last hours, a list of those he knew and recognised. It was distressingly short given that he knew for a fact that those Salomé possessed were more profuse than he was aware of. "Some. The slice to her left arm she did herself. She had to use it for a Ritual of Fission."

"A Ritual of Fission?" Sirius echoed sharply. The narrowing of his eyes was dangerous.

Cedric held up a quieting hand. "I'll explain later," he said, and Sirius, after a pause, nodded in acceptance. Cedric turned back to the expectant Mrs Weasley. "Other than that, she'd exhausted herself magically from a combination of defensive and offensive spells in our escape atop the effects of casting Fiendfyre."

"Fiendfyre?" Sirius interrupted again. "A Horcrux then?"

"Later, Sirius." It was Mrs Weasley who rebuffed him this time. "Anything else you know?"

Cedric paused, pursing his lips. "There was an injury to her shoulder. The left shoulder. She already had it when I came across her, but I suspect…"

"A snakebite," Mrs Weasley informed him with a shake of her head. "A bad one, too. I only just managed to catch it before the venom spread irreversibly. But I'm unsure if my antivenin is adequate enough. Do you happen to know –?"

"The snake?" Cedric nodded. "Nagini. Riddle's Familiar." He paused, then with a hint of satisfaction continued. "His Horcrux, and possibly his last one. Salomé destroyed it."

Mrs Weasley nodded without a hint of her own satisfaction. Her figurative clinician's hat was still firmly affixed. "The snake wasn't a magical breed, was it?"

"Not that I'm aware of. The snake itself was magically imbued, but the species?" Cedric shook his head. "As far as I'm aware it was just a common, albeit large viper."

"Good. That's good. I believe I can manage that, then." Mrs Weasley huffed and ran her hand through her hair once more. "Anything else?"

Cedric felt a familiar sense of foreboding rise within him once more. "Was there much else?"

Mrs Weasley's lips thinned and she folded her arms across her chest once more. The motion was more guarded than defiant this time, however. "There… were. Nothing critical. Physical strains of musculature, a sprain, a hairline fracture which could have been from exertion. You say you fought duels?" At Cedric's tight nod of assent she nodded herself. Her eyes fell downcast a moment later, however. "Other than that… bruises, mostly. Knew, as if they'd been made only a few hours ago. Nothing debilitating, and all out of them out of view. Do you…?" She glanced towards Cedric questioningly. She must have seen something dangerous in his expression for she dropped her gaze almost fearfully a moment later. "Yes, I thought so. You don't need to explain; I can deduce for myself the cause of them."

There was no need for further explanation. Cedric could very well deduce for himself, knew he would have been able to even without the very knowing expression on Mrs Weasley's face. He'd seen Riddle's hard-handedness enough for him to join the dots. For an moment Cedric saw red, his heartbeat throbbing fiercely in his ears. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, took a deep breath to instil calm.

"… what you mean?" Sirius asked, Cedric catching only the tail end of his question. "Are you suggesting…?" He sounded horrified at first, but that horror quickly morphed into a growl of outrage. "That bastard. I swear, I'll kill him –"

"Get in line, Sirius," Cedric muttered. His voice trembled slightly with the force it took to maintain a semblance of calm. "I believe he has a long list of those longing for his blood. You'd be hard pressed to beat Salomé to it, in fact; it was a very near thing our escape. We almost wouldn't have managed it at all she was so adamant about seeking him immediately, even in the state she was in."

Mrs Weasley shook her head a little sadly, a little regretfully. Yet unexpectedly, there was a fierce heat, even hatred _,_ in her eyes as well. Cedric had never beheld it in the strong-headed, kindly woman. She was hardy, no-nonsense and at times too stubborn for her own good, but hate? He'd never expected to see that. It was oddly heartening, that even Mrs Weasley was so provoked by the situation. "I believe even I would be prepared to step into that line," she murmured. Sirius' growl became one of approval.

A brief moment of brooding contemplation settled upon the three of them before Cedric shook himself from it. "Mrs Weasley, may I?"

Mrs Weasley glanced at him tight-faced, uncomprehendingly for a moment before understanding dawned. She nodded sharply, stepping aside and jerking her chin over her shoulder. "Keep it quite, though. She shouldn't wake up to a stampede of Hippogriffs but uninterrupted sleep will do her the most good. I don't want to hear a peep." She glanced over Cedric's shoulder and pinned Sirius with a pointed stare. "From _either_ of you."

"Don't treat me like a child, Molly," Sirius grumbled. He said something else that elicited a scathing response from Mrs Weasley, but Cedric didn't hear it. He was already striding into the room.

The fireplace had chased away the chill, warming even the floorboards through Cedric's boots. Or perhaps Mrs Weasley had placed an ambient Warming Charm upon the air itself. It hardly mattered, but Cedric was grateful nonetheless. He hastened to the beside and, quite without his behest, felt his legs fold beneath him so that he knelt alongside it.

Salomé looked terrible. Her resemblance to a cadaver was only heightened by the blankets that Mrs Weasley had tucked firmly around her, leaving nothing bare but her head and face. Her cheeks were still as pale as a ghost's, lips only slightly warmer in colour, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes were even more pronounced for it. She didn't move an inch in sleep, and hardly seemed to be breathing.

Except that she was. Cedric could see that, from the faint rise and fall of the blankets cocooning her immobile form. And truly, considering the state she'd been in but an hour before, Cedric conceded that she did indeed look better. Marginally. Those breaths were more the inhalations of the utterly exhausted rather than bordering on deathly. While pale, her colouring was not quite as bad as it had been, a rational part of Cedric commented, and if he strained his eyes hard enough he pondered that a hint of colour may even have returned to her cheeks.

But more than that, she looked less haggard. Less drawn in the simple act of sleeping. Mrs Weasley had obviously attempted to clean her up a little, grooming Salomé's hair from her face and arranging it neatly in a dark moat of sorts. The smattering streaks of grime that had smeared across her cheeks had been scrubbed away and not even the faintest sheen of perspiration touched her skin. Cedric knew without having to check beneath the blankets that her shoulder would be bandaged, her elbow padded and strapped despite the magic conducted upon the wounds. That even the slightest scratch or mar upon her body would have been wiped clean if not patched perfectly. Even knowing that, however, Cedric found his arm reaching unconsciously for Salomé's shoulder, touching just enough to feel the uneven bulk of fabric that wrapped it.

A sigh he hadn't realised he held heaved forth in shudder. Closing his eyes briefly, Cedric dropped his chin to rest his forehead gently on the edge of the mattress. He could hear Sirius circling the bed to the other side, the thump of his knees as he too fell into a slump beside the bed. They were a kindred spirit, he and Cedric. Like-minded in that they both cared for the sleeping young woman between them so immensely.

 _In different ways, though_ , a whispered thought niggled in the back of his mind. Opening his eyes yet keeping his head bowed, Cedric stared down at his knees.

It was true. He hadn't fully realised until that moment. For weeks he had been aware of his obsession. Aware that the degree of his loyalty was irrational. Strange, even. Salomé had said herself with a smirk not a two weeks prior that many would find his degree of dedication concerning.

"And do you?" Cedric had asked. He'd bitten back the small start of something akin to fear that had surfaced within him.

Salomé's smirk had widened in a way that he'd rapidly grown partial of over their brief time together. "Of course I do. But that doesn't mean I don't find myself enjoying it too."

Cedric hadn't quite known what to make of that, but he found he liked that fact. He liked that he didn't quite understand Salomé, that little things she would do would always leaving him blinking in surprise for their unexpectedness. That she was sharp-tongued and quick-witted but more often than not nurtured amusement beneath her teasing remarks. That when she thought no one was looking, when she thought Cedric wasn't looking, she would drop her hard exterior for a moment and simply allow her genuine curiosity, her derision, her exasperation and even, on rare occasions, her delight to creep forth. Cedric had seen little enough of such heartfelt joy; it never arose others, only in the sheer excitement of the moment when she fixed a difficult potion just right, or worked an impossible spell for the first time.

Or when she lost herself in solitary dancing.

Sometimes, not at first but sometimes in recent weeks, he'd chanced a glance at her to find something resembling fondness settling softly upon her features when she spared him a glance. Salomé didn't seem aware of it herself, didn't seem to realise that she adopted such an expression when she looked at him at times. It was always diverted quickly almost as soon as he noticed, but notice he did.

Cedric loved that expression. It floored him for a moment, staring as he was down at his knees, how true that thought was. He _loved_ it. And it wasn't because he doted on her very existence, as Ginny had said to him not two days before. It wasn't only because he felt committed to her for some misguided sense of loyalty, because be felt he owed her a debt as Hermione had once suggested. His friends, for all that they had patched up their feud after meeting Salomé two weeks ago, didn't quite understand.

Neither had Cedric. Not until he'd been faced with the possibility of sorely losing that which he had, somehow along the way, come to deeply care for. He didn't quite know when it had happened, wasn't even sure what it was; it was different to the care he felt for his parent, for the affection he harboured for his friends. Different yet still just a little the same.

Reaching over the soft mounds of the blankets, Cedric fumbled for a moment until he felt Salomé's hand faintly curled beneath the blankets. Yes, he'd grown to care for her. He felt a deep affection for her, this strange, fierce girl who hid so much from so many yet was so committed to her goal. He admired her for every moment she struggled. Because she had struggled. And nothing short of the extremes she'd faced could exposure such a profound strength.

Cedric loved that too.

"She looks a little better."

Raising his chin, Cedric drew his gaze first to Sirius, acknowledging his nearly inaudible murmur with a nod, before turning towards Salomé. She hadn't moved an inch, but it didn't matter. She still breathed and under Mrs Weasley's care Cedric knew that was as good an indication of potential recovery as any.

He felt a hesitant sigh of relief pass through his lips. "She does," he replied, even more quietly than Sirius. He wasn't sure if his words were even loud enough to be heard. He closed his eyes once more and squeezed slightly on the hand he still clasped.

 _Be alright, Salomé_ , Cedric thought with enough force that she must surely have been able to hear it. _Be alright and wake up soon. I'll be waiting here for the very instant that you do._

He vowed he wouldn't move from her side until she had opened her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an aside, Salomé's ritual words are translated (from Latin) as follows:
> 
> "My heart is my own, my body released;  
> From fission I've freedom, chains wrought to shreds.  
> Withdraw, oh ye binder, release your claws…"


	12. Home (Part 1)

The bed was hard.

That was the first thing that Salomé registered. Even before she was fully aware that she was in a bed, the thought danced over the front of her mind.

It was hard, and it was unfamiliar. She'd slept in enough beds in her time, from hard pallets to soft clouds to stretches of flooring that were little more than a blanket thrown over hard stone. One thing she'd discovered was that there was a surplus of different types. Another, that each was different enough to be distinguished from another.

The bed in which she lay was definitely different. Not as hard as the floor, nor even a pallet, but the mattress was surely stuffed with straw rather that built of springs or foam. Not uncomfortable exactly, but it would hardly be her first pick of bedsteads.

Blinking into wakefulness, Salomé frowned at the ceiling directly above her. It was high, in the style of old-fashioned houses, and a patchwork of whites and greys that bespoke neglect and deterioration. Turning her head – with some difficulty for she was wrapped nearly as tightly as a mummy in blankets drawn to her chin – she drew her gaze around the room.

Surprisingly, Salomé felt no onrush of anxiety or, more familiarly, of determined and refined anger at the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. She felt nothing if not simple curiosity as she studied the room, as though her mind were not warmed enough to even feel emotion of a greater intensity. Salomé drew her gaze slowly about her, as much to ensure she absorbed every detail as to avoid jarring her stiff neck.

It was a modest suite, not as large as the bedroom allotted to her at Riddle Manor had been but wide enough. Off-white walls contrasted with pale grey floors half-covered by a thin rug of faded patterns. A window with curtains half drawn consumed one wall, revealing the wan grey of early morning through fogged glass. A fireplace cracked in quiet mutters in one corner of the room, a plain, freestanding wardrobe in the corner opposite. And just to the side of the bed Salomé found herself in…

Cedric.

Of course Cedric was there. Some part of Salomé knew that she would have been more surprised had he not been by her side at all.

He was slouched in sleep at what much have been an uncomfortable angle. The chair in which he sat, all unforgiving wood and barely a thinly padded pillow on the seat, was not suited to accommodate dozing; an armchair would have been far better. It was even less fitting considering it seemed if nothing else slightly too small for his long body. Cedric's legs, stretched out before him, looked almost as long as those of a cricket for the impression to low chair gave.

He looked worn, too, and it was not only because the casual Muggle clothes he had outfitted himself in looked to have seen one day too many of wear. A slight scruff of stubble coloured his pale cheeks, his dark blonde hair combed back from his face as if by fingers rather than a hairbrush and with little care for appearances. There was tightness in his face, a frown on his brow even in sleep, and his body was tense as though ready to snap into wakefulness at a moment's notice. Salomé knew that should she speak a word at louder than a whisper, it was more likely that he would start into consciousness rather than mutter sleepily, roll over and sink back into oblivion. She didn't want to wake him; he looked sorely in need of sleep, even if it was only a light sleep. And for some reason, Salomé wanted nothing more than for him to find a modicum of rest. To fall victim to the rejuvenating effects of the sleep of the utterly wearied.

She could commiserate. Though Salomé was sure she'd slept more than adequately, the urge to close her eyes and fall back into unconsciousness was very tempting. In stillness, cocooned in blankets, Salomé felt stiff and aching, but… if not entirely hale, she was certainly less poorly than she would have expected. The events at Riddle Manor had surely left her beaten to within an inch of her life. That much Salomé could recall. She dredged up the last moments of her recollection and found herself irked by the abrupt truncation of her memories. The flash of blue-green fire, the sharp, tearing feeling of the Bond being magically wrenched from her very chest, the burst of glowing white light and a crushing pressure to her skull that had not encouraged but demanded unconsciousness. It had hurt, briefly, sharply, like a jolt of electricity sparked across her nerves.

Salomé couldn't remember anything after that. After the pain and the blinding light, everything simply… stopped. Which meant that any subsequent confrontations with opposition, any tearing flight and manic escape, would have been conducted solely by Cedric. Cedric, burdened by Salomé's unresponsive weight. Though Salomé would readily assumed his competency as both a competent fighter and a practical escapist, Riddle's attackers and defences were nothing to be smirked at. It was no wonder that he was tired.

So when the crack of a house elf interrupted the muted crackle of the fire, as loud as a whip-crack in the quietness, Salomé snapped her head towards the source of the noise with a glare already affixed to her face. With a stiff heave, she propped herself into sitting to peer over the side of the bed. The hunched figure of Kreacher peered back up at her.

Salomé had something of a soft spot for house elves. Perhaps it was pity, or simply that she had become so fond of her Nanny over the years, held similar fondness for Dobby so many years ago, that she couldn't look at them in any other way. For even though the crack of the elf's Apparation had been recognisable enough and Salomé's irritation provoked, at the sight of that wrinkled face and drooping eyes, the hooked nose that resembled a toucan's beak more than a humanoid little man's, she couldn't maintain her anger.

Her glare, however, was a different matter. Salomé could maintain that expression without thought. "What exactly do you think you are doing, Kreacher?" She said in a barely audible murmur. "Surely you are aware that such an intrusion is loud enough to awaken a light sleeper?"

Kreacher was instantly repentant. Gnarled hands grasping onto the belly of his tea towel toga, he turned abruptly watering eyes towards her. "Oh, Mistress, begging your pardon! Kreacher is terribly sorry for awakening Mistress, terribly sorry. Kreacher will be punishing himself immediately, Mistress, immediately he is. Kreacher will –"

"Kreacher, silence," Salomé sighed. At least he'd kept his voice to little more than a squeak. She dropped her glare in favour of affording the ancient little elf a reproving stare. "Do not punish yourself. I do not want you to."

"But Kreacher is –"

"Kreacher, that is an order."

Kreacher immediately silenced himself, though his hands still twisted tightly into his tea towel. The trembling of his wrinkled chin bespoke barely withheld tears as surely as the glassiness in his eyes. Salomé recognised the signs – it was a house elf's compulsion to punish themselves for any perceived slight of their actions. To not do so would be, in some ways, more painful than any physical hurt they could inflict upon themselves.

But Salomé wouldn't withdraw her order. Kreacher shouldn't be hurting himself; the house elf hadn't truly done anything wrong, not in Salomé's opinion. That he'd magicked himself into the room was likely because he perceived that opening the door would have been only more intrusive. And a glance at the door, at its ancient appearance and the likelihood of its creakiness, Salomé suspected he would be right in such an assumption.

Grimmauld Place, Salomé registered finally, detachedly. Obviously. Old house, Kreacher's presence, the fact that Cedric would have been most likely to have sought Sirius' assistance in a crisis; she'd heard him speak of their cooperation.

"Now," she continued, keeping her voice low and striving for soothing. It was hardly a tone that came naturally to her. "What are you doing here, Kreacher?"

Kreacher turned still-watery eyes towards her, and Salomé noted with an internal sigh that adoration shone just as brightly as remorse in his gaze. The house elf was smitten, she knew. It was through no express desire of her own; Salomé had not deliberately acted to endear herself to him. It was merely a chance sequence of events that led to such an eventuality. Finding Regulus Black's journals magically concealed from all but a potential ally, visiting the cave and finding the replacement Horcrux, reading Regulus' note and understanding. Kreacher had been a lucky find, and even luckier in that, when Salomé had admitted her desire to destroy the Horcrux, he had gasped and stumbled over himself to offer it to her. He had, in blubbering words, explained to Salomé how he had been unable to "fulfil Master Regulus' wishes in destroying the horrid trinket". When Salomé had done so herself, in a blast of Fiendfyre that had nearly destroyed the little shack she and Kreacher had secreted themselves in for just that purpose, he had been a weeping mess of gratitude.

"Mistress – Mistress is so wonderful, Mistress is, for being able to fulfil Master Regulus' wishes! Kreacher is so grateful, so grateful. Kreacher could never repay Mistress. Never ever _ever_." He'd spluttered and declared his undying loyalty to her as his late Master's "best helper" and had only left Salomé's side when she'd reminded him that he was hardly her servant, that his allegiances were too the Blacks. He left her with a mournful expression, like nothing if not a kicked puppy.

That puppy impression had returned once more with Salomé's question. He was not resentful, but wounded nonetheless. "Kreacher is simply wishing to serve Mistress Salomé," he mumbled. "Kreacher knew the instant Mistress Salomé was awakened and hastened to Mistress's side. Kreacher will do anything, anything, Mistress needs –"

"Thank you, Kreacher," Salomé interrupted him, for she likely wouldn't have been able to get a word in edgewise had she not interrupted him. "I appreciate your consideration. It is very becoming of you."

The answering smile that Kreacher offered her was truly terrifying on his ancient, drawn face. It would have looked more of a grimace had it not been accompanied by his squeaks of excitement. "Mistress Salomé is very kind, very kind to be saying as much –"

"Shh," Salomé interrupted once more, raising a quieting hand to hush the house elf. She cast a glance towards Cedric. She wasn't sure if he had awoken fully yet, but he'd twisted in his seat twice in the last two minutes. "Master Diggory is still sleeping. I do not wish to awaken him." She paused. "Has he not a bed of his own in which to sleep?"

Kreacher nodded his head fervently. "Master Diggory does, Mistress, oh yes he does. Kreacher has been making it up, turning the pillows and airing the blankets and starting the fire and –"

"Why does he not seek it, then?"

Kreacher paused mid word, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. "That is… because Master Diggory is not wishing to be leaving Mistress Salomé's side, of course. Master Diggory is being most concerned for Mistress Salomé. A very good man, Master Diggory is, very concerned and very good, very good indeed… "

The hint of condescension in Kreacher's tone trailed off into mumbles of approval. From his words, Salomé considered that he assumed the answer to her question should have been obvious. And perhaps it was to Kreacher, and should have been to Salomé too, but she simply hadn't considered it. She should have, maybe, given that since Cedric had been in her 'employ' he had scarcely left her for an instant except when she retired to bed. She should have suspected as much. Cedric had expressly told her that he felt uncomfortable leaving her side. It had been a strange conversation, Salomé recalled, one of many that had left her faintly lost as to the nature of their relationship.

But surprisingly, despite its strangeness, it had left her warmed. Heartened, even. The affection that Salomé had recognised arising within her, affection for Cedric, grew only more potent. It was that same warmth that grew in her chest at Kreacher's words, and she felt an unconscious smile curl onto her face.

How odd. And disconcerting.

"… be bringing Master Diggory an extra blanket to stave off the chill, but Kreacher's efforts were not being wanted. So Kreacher has been making Mistress Salomé's breakfast and lunch and dinner for two whole days as Mistress has been sleeping, in case Mistress wakes up hungry. Kreacher will always, always be ready when Mistress –"

"Two days?" Salomé asked, cutting into Kreacher's gravely voice in surprise. "I've been here for two days?"

Kreacher nodded his head vigorously, his jowls and the sagging tip of his nose swaying with the rapid motion. "Mistress has been sleeping for fifty-five hours and twenty-one minutes exactly. Mistress was healed by the Mistress Blood Traitor very well, has been healing very, very well indeed, Mistress has…"

The house elf continued with his expressions of approval for the 'blood traitor', which Salomé all but ignored. It would be no use in attempting to correct his use of the term for who she could only guess held the title, even had she felt so inclined to attempt it. He was set in his ways unshakeably in many regards as Salomé had come to realise in the brief interactions they'd shared over the years. The fact that he was approving of said 'blood traitor's actions at all was incredible in itself.

Her thoughts instead settled incredulously upon the information the elf had provided. Two days? Two days Salomé had been sleeping at Grimmauld Place? How much could have happened in two days?

Riddle needed to be killed. He needed to be destroyed as fast as possible because… because now that he _could_ be. She _knew_ it, even without the confirmation of Nagini being his final Horcrux. She could feel it. Salomé knew she had to act fast or else risk him erecting other defences that would need to be torn down once more. He needed to be killed and Salomé needed to do it _now_.

Except that a brief assessment, a inward study of her magical state, informed her that she was hardly within the capacity to do so. Her magic felt as worn as Cedric looked, like a draught horse hanging its head after a long day of work and barely acknowledging her attention. It was better than it had been, Salomé knew, for what it _had_ been was as close to an extinguished candle as she had ever experienced. Fiendfyre, she knew from experience, struck a heavy blow on her energy stores. The added weight of her subsequent fights and the Ritual of Fission was even more exhausting. Salomé was unsure how long her magic needed to fully recover, but it would take time. Perhaps too much time, but it was necessary to allow the recovery to take place at least in part.

That understanding did little to allay Salomé's abrupt frustration, the sense of urgency that welled within her. Salomé wanted desperately to charge immediately from Grimmauld Place, wand in hand and speeding post haste back towards Riddle Manor. But she wouldn't. Couldn't, because it would be walking to her own execution. Salomé didn't care all that much should she die in the process of killing Riddle, but destroy him she would. If she acted now she would be annihilated within seconds of a duel with him, and likely against any of the Apprentices too. It didn't help that a resurfacing memory of Cedric's cautioning, of his words preaching the necessity of flight for a more favourable return, were entirely valid.

Logic was often frustrating.

 _I'll have to wait. Wait, and gather information. And rest._ Salomé hardened herself, thrusting aside her nagging desperation, the urge to throw herself from her bed and hasten with all possible speed to Riddle and end him. Because she would fail, she knew. She had to remind herself of that; determined as she was, she was, at present, inadequate. The first port of call was to build up strength, to be sure that she could actually climb from bed without tumbling to the floor.

"Kreacher," Salomé interrupted the house elf's continued mumbles. He sounded happy about something, satisfied with himself for his efforts it would seem, but immediately fell silent at her words. "Perhaps I could trouble you for a request?"

"Oh! Oh, yes, Mistress Salomé. Yes, of course, anything Mistress is to be wanting Kreacher will provide, yes he will." The squeak was too high-pitched for his usual grumble. He sounded genuinely enthusiastic.

Salomé offered him a small smile that he returned in an exaggerated mimic. "Thank you. In that case, perhaps I can trouble you for some breakfast? Something light, if you would."

"Of course, Mistress, of course. Kreacher has been making many, many eggs, all poached and scrambled and boiled and curried, and bacon and sausages and roasted vegetables with lots and lots of toast with butter and jam and marmalade, and beans –"

"Toast would be appreciated, Kreacher," Salomé interrupted. She shook her head slightly at the recited menu; Kreacher had clearly and perhaps unconsciously been cooking for a party given the sheer surplus of selections. Every possible option, for fear that Salomé would make a request that he was not immediately prepared to provide.

It was a common theme with the little house elf, she had found. He was always so eager to please her. Cedric had commented in passing after their visit that he had never witnessed Kreacher anything but surly and that his obvious adoration was unprecedented. Salomé had never met Kreacher before their fateful encounter over Salazar Slytherin's locket, but she believed Cedric nonetheless. Even if the impression she got from Kreacher was the exact opposite of surly. He resembled Dobby more than the grumbling, discontented old grouch that Cedric had suggested he usually was. "And tea if you've any handy."

"Of course Kreacher has tea, of course. Kreacher has been brewing Earl Grey tea and lemon tea and green tea and chai tea and –"

"Earl Grey if you would. And perhaps some butter and jam for the toast?"

"Would Mistress be wanting strawberry or blueberry or raspberry or blackberry or –?"

"Strawberry would be fine. Thank you, Kreacher." Salomé didn't particularly have a preference, but it was often easier to simply request rather than leave the decision up to a house elf. Kreacher would likely trip over himself in an anxious flurry to attempt to present every possible option in the pantry in a makeshift banquet. How different he was to Nanny and her practical approach…

Kreacher was nodding and bowing and nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness to assure Salomé that he would provide her requests at the earliest convenience. "Kreacher will be getting Mistress's toast and butter and jam and tea right away, Mistress, he will be. Kreacher will indeed. Is there anything else Mistress would be needing from Kreacher?" He sounded almost hopeful, as though he wanted her to utter another request. In all likelihood he actually did.

Salomé paused in the act of assuring him that there was nothing more she required of him. Her mind caught on her previous passing thought. "Actually, there is something, Kreacher."

"Anything, Mistress," Kreacher hastened to assure her.

"You will have to be very careful, Kreacher. Very careful. In fact, I believe it would be best that you avoid being seen by anyone in this mission." At Kreacher's attentive nod, she continued. "I would ask you to stop by Riddle Manor to check on the wellbeing of a certain house elf in employ at the estate. Seek Nanny. I very much wish to know if she is well."

Kreacher's eyes narrowed in confusion, but he nodded nonetheless. "Riddle Manor is being very difficult to be getting into, Mistress Salomé. Very, very difficult, even for a house elf."

"If it is too great a feat to manage, I will not hold you accountable for being unable to accomplish it," Salomé said with what she hoped was a gentle smile. She wasn't particularly practiced at those either.

The affront on Kreacher's wrinkled face was nearly comical. "Kreacher will certainly be fulfilling Mistress Salomé's request! Certainly! No feat is too great for Kreacher."

"That is most gratifying to –"

"Kreacher will be getting Mistress Salomé's breakfast and then Kreacher will be going to Riddle Manor right away."

"Thank you, Kreacher, that would be most appreciated. But you need not –"

"And Kreacher will be checking on this Nanny and making sure she is well and Kreacher will be coming back to tell Mistress Salomé immediately." He paused in his rambling tirade, straightening his hunched back to the best of his ability and lifting his chin proudly.

The smile Salomé offered him this time was genuine at least in its amusement. She restrained herself to the best of her ability, however. It wouldn't do to seem disregarding of the house elf's efforts. She wasn't so cruel as to ignored such desperate eagerness and desire to meet her wishes. Not from a house elf, anyway. "Thank you, Kreacher. I am sure your best will be more than satisfactory."

With another beaming smile, Kreacher bowed low enough that his knees audibly creaked and his nose scraped against the floor. An instant later he snapped his fingers and disappeared in a crack.

Shaking her head, Salomé closed her eyes. She didn't know what made her request it, was more surprised at her actions than Kreacher apparently was. Salomé didn't see herself as a kind person, but Nanny was important to her in a way that no one else was. It wasn't quite friendship that they shared, or the opposing formality of master and servant. It was something more, something different. Most likely because Nanny was unlike any house elf Salomé had ever met, which was saying something as she'd encountered more than a few in her time. Nanny was just different, and Salomé liked that difference.

"That was very kind of you."

Opening her eyes, Salomé turned towards Cedric. He met her gaze as he eased himself into proper sitting, straightening his back and shifting in his seat. One hand rose to rub briefly at his eyes, wiping the grittiness from dark lashes that he blinked rapidly a moment later.

Flinching slightly – she didn't like to think that someone would think her 'kind' for the simple reason that such kindness usually entailed weakness – Salomé pursed her lips. "I don't know what you mean."

Smiling slightly, Cedric shook his head. "You treat him better than most people, you know."

"That's not saying a whole lot considering what you've told me of how others treat him," Salomé pointed out.

"True enough. It doesn't make it any less respectable that you do, though."

Salomé opened her mouth to reply before closing it. She paused for a moment longer, dropping her gaze to her hands folded in her lap before speaking. "I simply don't believe he needs to be treated derogatorily or with anything but the respect afforded to any other person."

"Even if he is disagreeable to the point of being infuriating?"

"Even then. Would you treat another human with the disrespect and cruelty afforded a house elf for surliness or so called 'bad behaviour'?" Salomé's lips thinned, though not for her consideration of Cedric. Her thoughts strayed instead to several instances of such cruelty she'd witnessed inflicted upon Riddle's house elves.

"Therein lies the primary problem with discrimination, isn't it?" Cedric sighed. The sound drew Salomé's gaze once more. He looked wearied by the thought, suddenly older than his years. "But then, I've never really understood house elves, nor their undying servitude."

"You should perhaps talk to Hermione of her Elfish Welfare Society," Salomé said, more to herself than in actual suggestion.

Cedric snorted in a burst of sudden amusement. "You mean spew?"

"Ron still calls it that?"

"When Hermione mentions it, yes. Not that she does so much nowadays. Other priorities, you know." Salomé nodded understandingly before Cedric continued. "But I'm sure she'd be delighted that you're so kind to them."

"Oh, spare me the horror." Salomé shook her head in mock mortification. "I don't think I could endure it."

"Well, you'll likely have to," Cedric said with a smile. "She and most of the Weasley's are living here at the moment while everything's so crazy."

"Crazy?"

Cedric nodded, his amusement fading beneath a settling frown. He turned something akin to a glare onto his hands clasped in his lap. "Perhaps it would be best not to talk about this. Not yet. Maybe when you're feeling better."

It was Salomé's turn to frown. "Cedric." She dropped her tone low and dangerous warningly.

It was a testament to how well Cedric knew her by now that he knew exactly how far he'd pushed her with a single word on her part. Raking a hand through his hair, he sighed once more and lifted his gaze. The glare was gone but the frown still remained. "Sorry."

"You should be. Don't treat me like an invalid, Cedric."

"I didn't intend for my words to be construed as such," he replied. "It was merely concern -"

"I don't need concern."

"- and practicality. It's not like we can really do all that much now anyway."

Salomé's frown deepened, though with confusion this time. "What do you mean?" A pause, in which Cedric hesitated with a thinning of his lips. "Cedric. Tell me."

Hesitating once more to scrub a hand at his stubbled chin, Cedric inclined his head in defeat. When he answered, however, it was not as expected. "How are you feeling?"

"How am I…?" Salomé blinked, her frown lifting momentarily in surprise at the abrupt change of topic. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your shoulder. And your arm. And your magic for that matter. You were exhausted." Cedric met her gaze with sudden intensity. "How are you feeling?"

Salomé stilled her tongue in the act of objecting. In disregarding his question to demand an answer to her own. She did so not because she knew he would not continue to answer had she persisted in her attempts, though know as much she did. It was simply because there was genuine desire, a longing in his voice for her answer. It was almost urgent, the sort of compulsive need that Salomé herself had experienced only at infrequent times. She didn't quite understand the reason for his apparent need, but his dark, intent gaze, the slight lines of worry around his eyes and the tightness of his jaw all begged her for an answer.

So she obliged. Salomé shrugged her left shoulder as though to prove to both herself and Cedric that it didn't pain her. "I feel hail enough. Not well, perhaps, but better than I was. Certainly less tired. My shoulder aches a little, but this," she touched the white, gauzy bandage that wrapped her elbow at the point she'd struck a Slicing Charm, "is completely fine."

"And your magic?" Cedric persisted.

"Quiet. Tired. Not…" Salomé hesitated with the supposition that she would come to regret her openness. "Not recovered yet, I would hazard. It will take time."

Cedric nodded slowly. "I suspected as much."

"And you?"

Eyebrows creasing confusedly, Cedric tilted his head. "What?"

"Are you well? You certainly look the worse for wear yourself."

Cedric offered her a half-smile, self-deprecating if nothing else. "Just tired, I think. I burned myself out a little when we were escaping the manor. Nothing that won't heal with a little time myself, but…"

"What happened?" Salomé asked. She heard genuine curiosity colour her demand. Salomé had no idea what had taken place after she'd lost consciousness after the Ritual and Cedric was likely the only one who could provide her with an adequate answer.

Cedric only shook his head, however. "A story for another time –"

"Cedric –"

"- when we are both better and when I've actually worked out what happened myself." His lips quirked in another self-deprecating smile. "I'm a little at a loss of what happened, actually."

Salomé could have pushed for more. She could have pointed out that anything Cedric could remember would be information to her. She could have growled and demanded that he once more stop coddling her until she was 'better' and to get on with it already.

But she didn't. For once, Salomé found that she didn't want to exert her wishes and demands upon another. Obviously Cedric was working something out for himself. He'd always been remarkably open with her when she'd requested he voice his thoughts. Almost too open at times, audibly considered, though she would rather that openness to silence. For once he didn't feel the urge to explain, to comment and attempt to help Salomé fill in the gaps in her knowledge. So she subsided.

Instead, she turned the questioning in another direction, even though she thought she could guess her answer before she asked. "What did you mean that everything has gone crazy?"

Cedric sighed once more, with heartfelt weariness this time. Evidently what little sleep he'd managed in the uncomfortable-looking chair was inadequate. Salomé would be sure to force him into a proper bed at the earliest opportunity. "You could probably guess for yourself."

"I likely could," Salomé agreed. "Tell me anyway."

Cedric nodded obligingly. "It's pretty expected. Since you – since _we_ – escaped, Riddle's been up in arms. He put out a warrant for your arrest through the Ministry and has roped the DMLE into it. You're a wanted woman, Salomé."

"How romantic," Salomé said, rolling her eyes.

Cedric smiled, but the humour fell from his face a moment later. "It's no secret that he hounds for your blood. The reason hasn't been made public but everyone knows that much at least. And its also pretty much accepted that you've sought shelter with his primary opposition. The warrants and rewards posted for the arrest of any and all members of the Order of the Phoenix have been increased exponentially. They might not be quite as high as your own – the reward for your capture is on par with Dumbledore's, did you know? – but it's certainly enough to turn the weak-willed and traitorous."

"That's very flattering that Riddle should think so highly of me," Salomé said, shaking her head. "And the Order? They have gone underground?"

"Just about. The Weasleys, Sirius, Hermione and Remus are all here at Grimmauld Place. They've opened up private Floo Channels to a couple of the other safe houses, but there's little traffic between them. Less chance of being sprung in transit."

"That makes sense," Salomé agreed.

"But other than that, there's been little anyone can do other than try and sit out the worst of it. Wait until the heat's died down."

"The heat won't 'die down'," Salomé said, her voice hardening. Not towards Cedric, she noted absently, but in discontent for the situation itself. "It won't simply go away. This is Riddle we're talking about."

"That's what I thought," Cedric said.

"And because it's Riddle," Salomé continued, "because this is his very existence, the destruction of his attempt at immortality, that we are confronting, he will not cease in his efforts until he has all of our heads on spikes."

There was a brief moment of silence between them, in which Salomé could almost hear the echo of her own hatred for the man emitting from Cedric. She dropped her gaze down to her hands once more, to her unfamiliarly chipped nails and clenched fists. Cedric dropped his elbows to rest atop his knees, his chin to cradle atop his interlocked fingers.

When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled behind his fingers. "Or we his. Two can play at that game."

Salomé nodded slowly. "Or we his. I have every intention of ensuring that it is his head that rolls, not ours."

"That sounds perfect," Cedric replied.

Salomé could just make out the hint of a smile behind his fingers. Averting her gaze to avoid falling prey to his good humour and smiling herself, Salomé plucked idly at the blanket that covered her knees. It was old and scratchy, the colour of diluted storm clouds that had likely once been of a darker shade. When she spoke, she directed her words towards the blanket rather than Cedric. "Then that is what we shall do. Rest, recuperate, and prepare ourselves to strike."

"I couldn't have put it better myself," Cedric said. Dropping his hands, Salomé could see from her periphery that he was still smiling.

"Of course you couldn't. I'm the one who said it."

Cedric chuckled. "Of course. And we'll have to prepare for the unexpected."

"Naturally. I've no doubt that Riddle will be doubling and tripling his personal defences."

"On the manor and his person?"

"I would expect no less."

"Do you know the nature of the defences he uses?"

Salomé paused before nodding slowly. She glanced sidelong at Cedric. At least his smile had faded now. "I do. Mostly. It will be unearthing their counter-spells that will be the primary difficulty."

"You're already familiar with some of them?"

"Who do you take me for, Cedric?" Salomé replied, arching an eyebrow.

And there was that smile widening once more. "I'm merely checking. But in regard to the others…"

"We'll need to reference them," Salomé finished for him, nodding sharply. "From any books on Dark magic, offensive and defensive. Anything we can get our hands on."

"Sirius has a pretty exceptional library on that subject."

"Of course he does," Salomé said, but she kept her tone approving. It was a benefit to their cause, and one that Cedric was merely highlighting. "Grimmauld Place is a Black residence. They've historically practoced in the Dark Arts."

"Then perhaps we'll start there? Then request anything additional from the other safe houses?"

Salomé nodded. "It's as good a place to start as any."

With that resolution in mind, it was with a slightly lighter heart that Salomé fell to her breakfast when Kreacher returned. He disappeared almost immediately to bring a similar serving to Cedric, who accepted the laden tray with a word of gratitude.

The situation was unprecedented, frustrating and a little daunting, and not for reasons that Salomé would admit. She didn't like feeling helpless and inadequate, was almost twitching with the urge to do something, and that was to say nothing of the situation at large. She was at Grimmauld Place with those who used to be her friends? That thought itself was disconcerting, but in a struggling thought Salomé made the secondary resolution to try to be civil. It would be easier than picking a fight, even if she wasn't looking forward to doing so. And it wasn't because she was scared of confronting her old friends. It wasn't.

She was just… she wanted to _act._

But they had a plan. A plan that they would put into action and _would_ be successful because Salomé would ensure it was so. It was simply a matter of acting upon it.

And waiting.

* * *

Saturday morning saw Sirius falling into what had become his usual routine over the past few days. He rolled from bed, waking with the sun, and dragged himself into the shower. A wander down to the kitchens filled him with enough coffee to wake the dead and the best breakfast he'd had in years; Kreacher's almost obsessive desire to have any and every possible choice available to Salomé should she wake up in an instant had flooded the kitchen with delectable smells and a surplus of food more competently cooked than Sirius had believed the old house elf capable of.

That was one of the most inconsequential changes that had taken a hold of Grimmauld Place since Thursday morning.

That Kreacher had made a concerted effort to 'tidy up' had also left its mark upon the estate. If not as good as new, it was certainly better than it had ever been. Sirius found himself shaking his head in wonder and actually commiserating with Mrs Weasley that the house elf could make such a profound impact on the house's interior when he put his mind to it. It was something that they actually managed to agree upon.

Alongside the increased cleanliness of the house, the immense satisfaction of the meals provided, there was also the changes of its additional inhabitants. Sirius had never liked the quietness of an empty house, had always all but begged any guest to remain with him in its gloomy walls for longer than they felt comfortable. He had an ever-changing series of temporary residents passing through the rooms, and though they helped alleviate the grimness of the house it just wasn't quite enough.

Fifteen people. Fifteen people now dwelled in Grimmauld Place. Sirius had never been happier to be so surrounded. And that one of those people was his godson – or was it goddaughter now? Yes, goddaughter. That was the best part of it all.

Salomé hadn't woken for two whole days. She'd not moved an inch in her bed, either, and though colour had slowly returned to her cheeks, she still resembled the dead more than the living. But even without her active participation in the household, even as simply a passive presence on the third floor in the best guestroom, the change it had wrought upon the house was impossible to overlook. It wasn't just in Kreacher, either. The Weasleys, once Harry's pseudo-family of sorts, were buzzing with the possibility that they would be able to interact with their long-lost friend once more. Hermione spent nearly as much time in Salomé's room as Cedric and Sirius did, and Remus, though clearly nervous for the future, seemed almost calmed that Salomé was simply _there_. It wasn't until Sirius witnessed the alleviation of so many fears that he came to realise just how much everyone had worried for her. It put his own fears into perspective, even if just a little. He wasn't alone in his worrying at least.

Chewing on a last corner of buttered toast, Sirius took the stairs from the kitchen two at a time. He strode with mechanical steps along the hallways and let his feet lead him up the next two flights of stairs to the third floor. Brushing his hands of crumbs, he paused just before the door to what he had come to label 'Salomé's Room'. He didn't knock – they'd all unanimously agreed that even such an unobtrusive sound was too much of a disruption for the designated 'quiet room' – and edging open the door just slightly he slipped inside.

It was warm in the sparse room. Always warm, as Mrs Weasley had dictated. The woman basically kept a permanent Warming Charm radiating from the walls to an almost uncomfortable degree, though Sirius had to admit it was better than allowing the chill from the scantly curtained windows to pervade the space. Autumn had taken a sharp turn in the past twenty-four hours and seemed to descend only more rapidly towards winter.

The fire still crackled in the hearth. Its merry spitting was the only sound besides the scuff of Sirius' footsteps. Not even the sound of breathing accompanied it.

Which was the primary problem, Sirius realised, his heart seizing in his chest as he turned from closing the door to the bed. Empty. The blankets were perfectly tucked as though a house elf had been, seen the emptiness of the bed, and addressed the crumpled, absented sheets accordingly. Cedric's chair – for it was _only_ Cedric's chair, being that he'd barely left it in the past two days – was similarly empty.

Gone. Salomé was gone.

What -?

Why -?

_Where had she gone?_

Sirius' first thought was that Salomé had awoken and immediately set to what Cedric had called her fixated goal. That she had barely been awake for a moment before jumping to the act of seeking and destroying Riddle.

But that was ridiculous, his rational mind countered. Cedric was gone too, which meant that he was most likely with her because Cedric was _always_ with Salomé. Cedric wouldn't let her go to Riddle, not yet. Not only as it would be announcing a death wish to go in such a compromised state but because they would need all the back up they could find.

Unless Salomé had left before Cedric had noticed. Unless she'd slipped from the room, taken off to the manor, and Cedric, waking up to find her gone, had raced after her. Sirius held no hopes that Cedric would have paused long enough to call for help himself if such a series of events had occurred. He would have had only Salomé on his mind and forgotten the very existence of everyone else in the house.

Sirius knew this because he knew that he would have done the same. In an instant his mind felt certain of the most severe of possibilities.

"Kreacher!" He shouted, turning from the empty room

Sirius was already striding down the hallway and taking the stairs two at a time when the house elf appeared beside him. "Master called Kreacher –"

"Salomé is gone," he barked, not even sparing the elf a glance. "I need you to tell everyone in the house. I don't know where –"

"Mistress Salomé is in the library, sir," Kreacher grumbled. "Mistress is reading very intently in the company of Master Diggory."

Sirius nearly tripped as he stumbled to a halt. His breath froze in his chest before abruptly defrosting in a gasping sigh of relief. Raising his hand to his forehead he closed his eyes briefly before glancing down towards Kreacher. "She's in the library?"

Kreacher pursed his lips slightly before nodding almost begrudgingly. "Yes, Master. Most studiously studying, Mistress is. Such a smart Mistress, always very good to Kreacher, always so respectful. Such a wonderful –"

"Yes, yes, she's very wonderful," Sirius overrode the elf. His relief was so paramount, however, that he could hardly instil an ounce of annoyance into his tone. Kreacher had preached of Salomé's 'goodness' more than enough to warrant his irritation, regardless of if it was accurate or not. "Is she alright?"

Kreacher bobbed his head, for perhaps the first time Sirius had beheld actually seeming eager to answer a question. "Mistress Salomé is doing very well, sir. Kreacher is making sure Mistress has her breakfast and tea and that she is given some new clothes and shoes and every need she has is seen to."

Sirius sighed once more. His heart rate had slowed just slightly, enough that he felt at least mildly confident that it would not pound physically through his chest. He could actually breathe now without gasping. _What a fool I am, to wind myself up so irrationally._ Except that it wasn't irrational, Sirius reasoned. What if Salomé had taken herself to Riddle Manor? What if she had -?

 _No. Don't think about that._ Shaking his head, Sirius dropped his gaze down to Kreacher once more. The house elf was still mumbling, though Sirius supposed it was more to himself that to his master. He sounded almost jovial, however, rather than wracked with hatred and cursing the world. It was another change Salomé's presence had brought to the household. "That will be all, Kreacher."

The house elf started slightly, glancing towards Sirius as though surprised that he still stood before him. Blinking his squinted eyes, he dropped his head in a bow. "Of course, Master. Kreacher will get back to cooking his morning tea."

"You do that." Sirius nodded, barely hearing him. He'd already turned from the elf and set off towards the library on the ground floor.

The Black Archives, as Sirius' great-great-grandfather had so pompously labelled it, was an impressive collection of works. Ranging from ancient tomes of dusty pages and hardbacks that were nearly too heavy to lift with human hands to small notebooks and diaries barely as large as his hand and with hardly enough pages to warrant the term 'book', almost every Darkly magical subject under the sun was covered. One of the largest rooms in the house, it was filled with concentric rings of towering bookshelves surrounding an unmatched arrangement of seating with a table at the very centre of the room. Parchment scrolls and vellums were wedged in every available corner, between books and atop them, even scattering the very tops of the bookshelves. The overpowering smell of age clung to every surface and the morning sun, pouring through intermittently spaced narrow windows, illuminated the thick cloud of dust motes that hung in the air.

Sirius didn't dislike the room. He'd simply spent so little time in it as to overlook its very existence. Never much one for scholarly academia, and only picking up a book when necessary, he'd spent little enough time in any library, even in his schooling years. Sirius knew that Hermione had taken a shine on the room, but had cautioned her in her eagerness; there truly were some Dark prints within those books. He didn't want her accidentally stumbling across something incriminating without realising it.

As soon as Sirius strode into the room he could hear the faint murmur of voices. Not loud enough to be made out, and muffled by the stacks of bookshelves that stood between the doorway and the centre of the room where the speakers likely sat. Sirius wove quickly through the bookshelves towards the source.

He noticed Cedric first. He was seated alone at the circular table at the very centre of the library, surrounded by half a dozen stacks of books of various size, height and, from a glance, content. An illustrated folder of parchments was opened before him and his dark blond head was bowed as he drew his squinting gaze after a directive finger. He looked altogether comfortable where he sat, back straight yet at ease with elbows propped on the table and the sleeves of his navy sweater scrunched to his elbows. He was muttering loud enough to be heard from a dozen feet away.

"… can't be anything but a Conjunctivitis Curse, but then this counter-curse incorporates not only a deflection but also absorption. Any sort of absorption for a curse with contagious effects is risky, so I can't quite understand…" He shook his head as he trailed off, frowning down at the parchments before him.

"That would probably be the variant, then. Manipulated with specific intent by an advanced Charmer, disease-inducing curses can be shifted to target another area of the body. It often manifests itself as more intense, as the curse grabs onto anything without having a direct focus."

The sound of Salomé's voice drew Sirius' attention in a snap of his chin across the open space of tables and chairs. She stepped distractedly from the midst of the bookshelves opposite him, her head bowed and half-hidden by the folds of her hair as she studied a long, thin hardback opened in her hands. A suspended chain of books followed behind her, animated to mimic her movements five feet in the air under the direction of her casually raised wand.

The last of Sirius' fears, fears he hadn't even realised still clung to him after Kreacher's reassurance, seeped away at the sight of her. They disappeared to be replaced by curiosity. His eyes skimmed over her quickly, and he was left with an impression that drew a smile to his lips.

Salomé was far removed from the cool, aloof, refined young woman that Sirius had seen two weeks ago. Even further removed from the snide, sardonic and, for want of a better word, Dark witch that she had been when at Riddle's side. It was strange what a difference Muggle jeans and a sweater could make when compared to the fitted and upstanding attire of dress robes, or even casual robes. The pale blue sweater was too big for her, the sleeves falling over her fingertips by at least another handbreadth and slipping off one shoulder to expose her pale shirt beneath. The cuffs of her jeans were similarly too long, the legs a little too large, and fell over the slipper-like shoes to shroud them almost entirely. That she hadn't bothered to fix their length was strangely satisfying.

Her hair hung loose in slightly dishevelled curls, as though Salomé had hardly bothered to run a brush through them. Sirius noticed more profoundly the effects of the Fiendfyre with that; it wouldn't be as noticeable as the effects of a burn, but rather than the prefect black ringlets and immaculate styling Salomé had always outfitted herself with, her hair now hung loose and choppy, the lengths uneven as though she'd idly taken to it with a pair of scissors. Sirius found he quite liked the effect. Far more than the sleek perfection, anyway.

More noticeably, however, was her expression. Quite different to her cold mask, to the narrowed eyes and nonchalance, even to the smirks of derogatory amusement, Salomé looked somehow more… human. She frowned in concentration as she flicked through the pages of the book in her hands, brushed a sweater-shrouded hand beneath her nose with a sniff as though unconsciously flicking aside a dusty irritant. Her lips pursed slightly as though she were disgruntled over something she read and even briefly the quill in her hand tapped thoughtfully upon the open page of her book. Such simple gestures that made such a difference. Even more so when her frown deepened slightly and she worried briefly at her bottom lip.

But best of all were the glasses. Sirius didn't even know where she'd gotten them from, but it hardly mattered. He couldn't suppress the rising smile that stretched across his face. Salomé had never worn glasses before, not that Sirius was aware of. And yet now… they weren't the same as those Harry had worn, not reminiscent of those similarly worn by his father, but they were glasses all the same. And he loved them, for the simple fact that she wore them.

When Salomé glanced up from her book and met his eyes behind the square lenses, Sirius knew that she somehow understood exactly what had made him smile. Contrary to disputing his delight or even ignoring it, she offered the smallest of smiles in return. It was accompanied by a pointed raising of her eyebrow, but it was a smile all the same.

"Sirius. Would you care to join us?"

At Salomé's words, Cedric raised his head and glanced over his shoulder. He nodded in greeting to Sirius before turning once more back to his parchments and reaffixing his attention. Sirius drifted towards him and peered over his shoulder before glancing towards Salomé. "What are you doing?"

"Researching," Salomé replied unhelpfully, seating herself in the chair opposite Cedric's and urging her levitating books onto the table around her.

"That's what Kreacher told me," Sirius said, skirting the table to lower himself into the seat beside her. His eyes grazed across the spines of the books she'd collected. Their titles left him frowning, concerned. "I'm not sure I want to ask what it is you're researching."

"You need not hesitate," Salomé assured him, not even glancing up from the thin book she was still apparently engrossed in. "Ask away."

Sirius was silent for a moment, simply watching Salomé as she read. She was a stubborn young woman, however, and appeared fazed not in the slightest by his attention. He didn't say it aloud, but questioning the subject of their research was far down on the list of queries he wished to ask. "Alright, I'll bite. What are you researching?"

It was Cedric who replied, though neither of them glanced up from their reading. "Dark Arts and counter-curses that could be useful when confronting Riddle."

Sirius felt his eyebrows creep up his brow. "Really? What for?"

"For defeating him, of course," Salomé said with distracted exasperation.

"You think it will help?"

"Every last inkling of addition knowledge could help."

Sirius nodded slowly. "True. But how do you know what to look for?"

"Salomé has some idea of the types of defences Riddle is inclined to use," Cedric said. He folded the file of parchments with a crunch of paper and shunted it to the side. The tome he drew before him next was immense and released a plume of dust as he flipped open the cover. "Personal Protective Garb, wasn't it, Salomé?" He asked, waving a hand before his face to disperse the dust cloud.

"Some of it, yes," Salomé nodded. "He tends – most shockingly – to stray towards the Darker magics. It isn't much to go on, but…"

"Better than nothing," Cedric said, offering a smile of encouraging just short of coddling. Or maybe just a little too much, Sirius reasoned, given that Salomé glanced towards him flatly for a moment before rolling her eyes. Sirius saw the shadow of a smile touch her lips, however, as she dropped her attention back to her book.

Glancing between the two of them, Sirius felt a satisfied smile rise on his own lips. He'd known something was going on there, but had always just put it down to Cedric's strange obsessiveness. Clearly there was something more, something that had recently changed, some affection between them that overrode formalities. Well. That was one positive that had come from the explosive and potentially near disastrous encounter between Salomé and Riddle.

Shaking the thoughts – the increasingly loud and persistently satisfied thoughts – from his mind, Sirius turned to face Salomé more directly. "Perhaps I can be of some help?"

Salomé glanced at him sidelong, blinking slowly. She shrugged after a moment of silent regard. "You're most welcome to. Any help would be appreciated."

Sirius nodded. "Any book in particular?"

Reaching without glancing to her right, Salomé grasped a book and handed it towards him. ' _The Art of Offensive Defence,_ ' read the title. Delightful. "Read. Jot down a revision of anything that sounds even remotely relevant here," she gestured to an inkpot, quill and largely empty parchment in the middle of the table, "and move onto the next book when you're done."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Easy enough."

"So you think," Cedric muttered, but there was jest in his tone. Sirius felt his smile reborn; it had been a long time since he'd joked with Cedric. He'd missed their casual companionability, and hadn't realised how much until the possibility of its return arose.

"Stop your grumbling, Cedric. Time's wasting," Salomé chided. There was teasing in her tone as well, though, faint and nearly indiscernible but there. Sirius' smile only widened. Shaking his head slightly in wonder, he flipped open the book Salomé had offered him and dropped his gaze.

Sirius was not much for studying. Not much for reading at all, even if the content was gripping. But he found he was actually enjoying himself. Halfway through his first book, Sirius glanced sidelong at Salomé and in the midst of his pervasive satisfaction and quite without his conscious consent murmured, "I like your glasses". He would have retracted the words if he could. His curiosity for such a simple feature had been brewing beneath the surface; why was she wearing glasses at all when she didn't need to? Did she needed them for reading? Why? Surely Riddle would have fixed any optical deficiencies fully rather than leaving them half-done. That simple glitch in Sirius' mental image of his goddaughter spewed forth in the bluntness of his question.

As it happened he need not have been concerned. Salomé turned slowly towards him, her face blank and expressionless for a moment. At first, Sirius worried that she would resort to her chilling gaze, to the hard aversion she wore so competently.

But then that blank façade slipped and a slight smile took its place. Barely loud enough to be heard, she replied, "Thank you. So do I."

Those simple words made Sirius' day.

* * *

Ron had never been a morning person. It was because of this, that when he woke up most weekend days, that it was more appropriate to seek lunch rather than a late breakfast. Scrubbing his eyes into alertness, he stumbled from the room that he had slept in on and off for more than three years and stomped down the stairs towards the basement kitchen. Despite the dining room being just a floor above, no one ever really used it. It was too formal, Sirius claimed, and everyone agreed with him. Besides, the disconcerting study of a number of glaring portraits made for a tense mealtime.

The sound of voices rung up the narrow stairwell from the basement to the ground floor, familiar voices in chatter and the distinctive scrape of cutlery on crockery that indicated a significant number of diners already seated. Given the hour of the day, Ron didn't need to be a genius to deduce who was inside.

Practically everyone currently living in Grimmauld Place, that was who.

There was not a seat to be spared around the long, rectangular table. The hubbub and chatter of too many voices in too little space filled the air. Ron cringed as he stumbled down the last steps into the dingy, brightly lit room, his sleepy ears assaulted.

The aroma of thick, spicy stew and freshly baked bread flooded his nose. It immediately set his mouth to salivating in expectation and his stomach to grumbling. Kreacher had become an expert chef seemingly overnight, and even Ron's mum had ceded to his claim as primary chef. Begrudgingly, though, and she still grumbled at every possible chance, but there was no other option; Kreacher _lived_ in the kitchen, was up and preparing breakfast before the first sleeper dragged themself into wakefulness. More than that, the glare the house elf shone upon any who sought to relieve him of his cooking duties was enough to induce a stomach ulcer.

Ron couldn't complain. He loved his mum's cooking but Kreacher was an artist.

All of his brothers were present, Ron noticed with a glance. Bill sat at Fleur's side as he ripped apart a thick slab of bread while the twins swapping celery for zucchini as was their usual habit – Fred hated celery and George would only do him the favour of alleviating him of them if Fred took a sacrificial exchange. Charlie was engrossed in a conversation with Ron's dad, an exchange that involved a seemingly unnecessary amount of gesticulation and hand waving. Hermione watched in muffled amusement at Ginny and his mum engaged in one of their not-quite arguments.

Down the far end of the room, as they had yesterday at lunch, Sirius and Remus had fallen into deep conversation with Cedric and Salomé. They looked so intent on the words they shared that it was no wonder that no one else joined in. Ginny had tried yesterday, but had professed afterwards to Ron and Hermione that she had been far out of her depth. Something about the research they were doing in the library that morning that she had been uninvolved in. Naturally, Hermione had immediately jumped to joining them in their endeavour. Ron hadn't seen her for the rest of the day, wary as he was of entering any library of his own inclination.

Today was apparently no exception. Ron was surprised that Hermione hadn't actually joined them in their discussion, or Bill, Fleur and Charlie. The four of them had all flocked to the Black Archives upon hearing the reason for Salomé and Cedric's search. They had their own little study group developing.

Ron felt decidedly uncomfortable with the whole situation. He tried not to be, given the reason for their studies – if there was any just cause for it then it would be to defeat the Dark Lord – but everything about it just left Ron… uncomfortable.

He wasn't oblivious as to why, either. Unlike most of the rest of his friends and family, Ron just couldn't quite reconcile the reality of Salomé. That she was – had been – Harry was hard enough to comprehend. It was difficult for him to wrap his head around the fact that his once best mate, the friend he still considered the closest he'd ever had, even after four years of absence, was a girl like _that_. That said girl had taken a shine to the Dark Side was even harder to accommodate. How could he possibly like her, let alone trust her, when she'd shifted her allegiances like that?

Ron knew he was being unfair. He knew it as well as he knew that it was hardly Salomé's fault that she didn't appear to feel as regretful for the loss of 'Harry' as Ron did. That since she had awoken she was actually almost friendly, even if in a completely different manner to how Harry had been, didn't help in the slightest. That friendliness was disconcerting if anything; it was simply so different to the girl Ron had met only once before as to be almost a different person entirely. How could he not be suspicious? Even if his intent yet suspicious study of the girl, keeping a wary eye out for any possible crack in this newly adopted persona, had proved fruitless.

Salomé wasn't exactly nice, but… perhaps it was simply because everyone was so desperate to like her, to accept her, but for some reason she seemed to be sliding with remarkable ease into their midst. It wasn't quite integration, for that would suggest an alteration on her part. Ron considered it more reminiscent of a lodestone abruptly unveiled, with every other resident of Grimmauld Place drawn towards her like magnets.

It was probably the novelty of the situation, Ron rationalised. Probably. He could understand that, could understand and appreciate the interest that Salomé's very presence unearthed in the closeted walls of the old house. That interest was likely exacerbated by the boredom that pervaded the very walls; just about everyone was climbing said walls for want of something to do. Of course Salomé – a new interest in an unending stasis of nervous wait as every Order member hid from the raking scans of Riddle's forces and the ministry under his rule – would be interesting. Of course she would be.

Hermione said she was a curiosity. That she was very smart, very knowledgeable and, at times, ready to share that knowledge. Ron knew that such a characteristic was more than enough to endear her to Hermione; any opportunity to learn from anyone was nothing short of favourable in her opinion.

Ginny claimed Salomé was fascinating, and seemed to have made it her goal to become fast friends with her. Sirius had only fond words for her, Ron's mother sympathy, his father rapidly dying uneasiness and Remus thoughtful consideration fading into satisfaction. The rest of the household seemed to be of varying levels of cautious favouring and contemplative attempts at friendliness. Each of them seemed only to be growing steadily and rapidly more favouring of Salomé, remarkably quickly considering it had been only such a short time. None were quite so obliging as Kreacher, but they were certainly getting there.

And Ron?

Ron wasn't quite sure where he stood. He admitted that she was certainly interesting enough, though he attributed his own interest to the fact that he was, like most of the rest of them, bored enough to tear his hair out. He also appreciated that she was smart, as Hermione said, and that she had a steady head on her shoulders, as Remus had claimed the previous night. He even recognised that she had a certain degree of wit, a sort of dry humour that Fred and George thoroughly approved of.

But everything else? The fact that Salomé had been living with Dark witches and wizards for four years and their hardness had visibly rubbed off on her? That for all her apparent shift towards cordiality she could still snap with unnerving speed towards coldness and scathing remarks? That she wasn't, no matter how much Hermione professed that she had definitely once been, Harry?

Because she wasn't. Salomé wasn't Harry. She might not be as bad as Ron had feared but she wasn't Harry. And it wasn't just that she was a girl, either. The way she acted was different, the way she spoke, her sense of humour tilted. Ron had been constantly making comparisons in his head every time the opportunity to observe her presented itself and he had very decidedly reached that conclusion. Maybe it was the understanding that his childhood friend was actually gone that made it so hard for him to embrace Salomé's presence in Grimmauld Place quite as easily as everyone else did?

Sidling into the kitchen, Ron plucked a plate from the cupboard and made his way towards the large crock-pot positioned in the middle of the table. No one even seemed to notice him slip between Bill and George's chairs to reach for the ladle. Slapping two thick slices of bread onto his plate, he scooped a mess of thick, fragrant stew onto his plate. The very sight of the dribbling, steaming gravy set his stomach rumbling. Only to protest indignantly when he turned to find a seat a moment later to note that not a single one was spare. That was one of the downsides of having an extra person in the house.

The dining room, sitting alone under the scrutiny of Sirius' objectionable ancestors, was not an option that Ron wanted to consider. Nor was finding a seat upon the kitchen floor, for although it appeared that Kreacher had made an effort to scrub it as clean as it could possibly be, pristine and dirt free it was not. It likely never would be.

He was just resigning himself to the fact that he'd be eating standing in the corner of the kitchen propped against the counter when Remus appeared to notice him. To totice his dilemma, too, as he stood at a loss in the middle of the kitchen. "Ron, here, take my seat. I've had more than had my fill, I think." And rising from his chair, Remus slid from the table and offered his seat to Ron with a gesture. A seat right next to Salomé.

Ron didn't know _exactly_ why he was so averse to spending any time with Salomé. He had discovered that he didn't dislike her as much as he had believed himself to before Cedric had appeared with her at Grimmauld Place only days ago. The sight of her pulled from her aloof and regal pedestal, despite being in such a concerning way given that she'd been bedridden in unconsciousness since she'd arrived, had actually made leaps and bounds in altering his regard. And when she'd awoken less objectionable than she had been… he should have been more favourable, he knew. Salomé hadn't really said a bad word to him. Hadn't barely spoken to him much at all, actually. Maybe that was the problem?

For whatever reason, it made Ron hesitant to take the seat Remus had offered him. It would be foolish of him not to, and there was no way he could decline it without making an idiot of himself and drawing attention to the fact that even the act of sitting next to Salomé disconcerted him. So as Remus moved towards the kitchen sink, Ron sunk into his chair beside Salomé and immediately turned towards filling his belly. It was easier than attending to his dining companions, certainly.

Not that said companions seemed to really even notice he'd filled Remus' seat except to realise that Remus was leaving. Sirius turned to glance over his shoulder, one arm slinging around the back of his chair. "See you in the Archives, Remus?"

Remus glanced up from the sink, shaking soap suds from his hands. "I've got to write a missive to McGonagall, but after that I'll be down shortly."

"You'll probably beat us there. I'm staying for dessert, myself. Kreacher's made a habit of cooking up something special for afters."

"What are you writing McGonagall about?" Cedric asked. Ron glanced towards him sidelong, searching for a hint of discontent in his friend's tone. Cedric had expressed his anger at pretty much all of the ex-Hogwarts professors without exclusion and that included the old transfiguration professor. Ron thought it was hardly fair, really, even given her allegiances to Dumbledore and Moody's way of thinking. She'd seemed at least mildly swayed in her allegiance before she left. Ron sensed a loose support in the foundations of their argument in his old Head of House.

Cedric didn't appear accusatory, however, or even disgruntled. His expression was only mildly curious, as though even the question itself was hardly of interest. Salomé, to his side, cocked her head towards Remus with similar curiosity. The pair's expressions were almost identical, disconcerting mostly because until recently Ron had seen little enough expression on Salomé's face at all.

Remus sighed, turning towards them. "Nothing of particular note. I'm not generous enough to afford her any noteworthy information. She simply wishes to be kept aware of the welfare of each of every person related to the Order. Just to make sure no one's being threatened."

Nodding his head, Cedric turned back to mopping up the last of his gravy with his bread. Salomé, at his side, nodded in something like approval. "McGonagall has always been logically intelligent."

"You're being remarkably accommodating given your most recent confrontation," Sirius said, turning back towards her as Remus left the room.

Salomé shrugged. "I don't have to appreciate her meddling to know that she's by and large one of the more favourable of my prosecutors."

"Prosecutors is a harsh word."

"But untrue?"

"Point." Sirius quirked his lips thoughtfully. "Although, from what I've heard, even Moody seems to have taken a bit of a turn concerning you. You certainly endeared yourself to everyone with that little Nagini act."

"My Nagini act?" Salomé said with a touch of a smirk. "How gratifying. Such a delight to know that others approve of my actions."

Ron kept his head down as he pretended not to listen to the conversation. Pretended he was more interested forking the admittedly delicious, tender lamb stew into his mouth, or in the conversation between Fleur and his mother to his other side. It wasn't interesting enough to really hold his attention, regardless of the fact that watching any rendition of the awkward act between his mother and his in-law was always amusing. But Salomé was doing her lodestone act again, and whether consciously or not he found his attention drawn towards her. Ron knew he wasn't the only one to feel that way, but that knowledge didn't do anything to quell his uneasiness for it.

So he kept his head half-turned towards his mother and eyes downcast to his food, and pretended not to listen to the discussion between Salomé, Cedric and Sirius like an eavesdropper. It wasn't easy, and not just because what they spoke of – back to considering the likelihood of Death Eater use of the dangerous and unpredictable Ferra-Dermis Potion – was far more interesting that the stilted exchange taking place to his other side. In an effort not to appear like said eavesdropper, Ron set to his meal heartily.

It was only when he was scowling around the table for a spare butter knife that someone actually spoke to him. Of course that someone would have to be Salomé. The soft slide of knife across the table drew his attention to the proffered cutlery. Ron glanced up at her uncertainly, fingers stilled in their natural inclination to reach for it immediately.

Salomé peered at him mildly sidelong, as though he was not truly of any particular note. "Here, I haven't used it."

"What?"

"The butter knife. And here." Reaching slightly across Cedric where he was still engaged in intent discussion with Sirius, she plucked the little butter bowl from the table and handed it to him.

Taking it slowly, almost warily, Ron met Salomé's nonchalant yet disconcerting gaze. Disconcerting because that gaze if nothing else belonged entirely to Harry. "Thanks."

Salomé shrugged. "It's hardly a trouble." And without another word she turned back towards the discussion at her other side, disregarding Ron once more. Very easily, too, Ron realised, for the speed she fell back into conversation as though she'd been listening to it with half an ear the entire time. "No, that makes little sense, Sirius. Utilising Ferra-Dermis is detrimental for extended use because of the excessive exposure to heightened iron levels in the circulatory system…"

Ron didn't understand a huge amount of what was being said. He'd never been one for potions, not even when Snape had forsaken his position to Professor Slughorn in his sixth year. It had simply never clicked with him. But that didn't mean that he wasn't attentive to the conversation. More so because, unnervingly, the second Salomé spared him a glance the room seemed to abruptly shift to revolve entirely around her. Or at least it seemed that way to Ron, anyway.

It was no secret why, either, Ron acknowledged as he fought and failed to keep his eyes from the girl sitting alongside him. Much to his disgruntlement and self-reprimand, he had to admit to one very key feature of Salomé that Harry had lacked. Not entirely, according to Ginny, but certainly enough that the difference was noticeable. Noticeable and disconcerting all over again. And that was that Salomé was gorgeous. Ron would have to be blind and stupid not to realise it. It was distracting and unhinging to be burdened with natural attraction when everything in Ron's head was so jumbled in confusion.

Ron didn't like to think of himself as an ogler. He didn't like to think that he objectified anyone either, or that he treated them differently depending on how they looked. He'd certainly never done so before, despite the fact that he knew he was more than a little prone to appreciating a woman's body. It was a struggle to draw his eyes from Salomé's very noticeable curves, to avoid distraction from the stray flick of hair as she brushed it carelessly aside. To resist staring at her smooth, pale skin that was bared only sparingly, to draw his eyes from the arch of a long, slender neck. Ron had never truly considered skin to be all that attractive before. It shouldn't be, right? That was weird, wasn't it?

It didn't help that Salomé no longer dressed herself in the figure-fitting and concealing-yet-exhibiting-everything robes that she'd tended to wear when in Riddle's company. If anything, Ron actually found it worse that she dressed herself in his sister's jeans and an oversized jumper that seemed determined to slip very noticeably off her left shoulder. There was something about casual wear that Ron found just more attractive. Couple that with the fact that she seemed less inclined – vastly less inclined – to ensure she was immaculately groomed and it created an altogether distracting impression. Ron actually found that he quite liked the choppy lengths of her hair. It was disorderly and unusual and somehow managed not to look like a complete botch up despite being the result of some rather nasty exposure to Fiendfyre. It was made even more noticeable, more eye-catching, for the fact that those features were so far removed from the image that Riddle had apparently modelled Salomé into. A modelling that obviously irritated her – and quite rightly so – and as such left Ron fidgeting guiltily whenever he found himself appreciating it.

It was probably that, he knew, which he found as difficult to overcome in his relationship with Salomé as anything. Almost as much as the fact that she wasn't Harry.

His attempts at avoiding staring were blessedly diverted by an interruption in the conversation between the three of them. At Salomé's side cracked into appearance a skinny, wrinkly little house elf wrapped in a patchwork of tea cosies. Above her head and nearly crushing her hears flat against her skull for the weight of it, she held aloft an expansive, covered tray laden with napkins and delicate dessert forks.

Nanny, Ron recalled her name was. He didn't really know much of the house elf except that she put Kreacher's devotion to Salomé to shame. Devoted she was, albeit in an entirely different manner, Nanny was more like a fondly loving maternal figure than the grovelling servant that Kreacher strove to embody. Apparently, at some trigger Ron wasn't aware of from the morning before, she'd up and left Riddle Manor and fastened herself like a shadow to Salomé's side. She somehow completely disregarded her previous ties in doing so.

Could house elves even do that? Ron wasn't sure, hadn't heard of it ever happening before, but then such was certainly what Nanny had done. Maybe she was just an exception to the rule? She'd certainly proved herself odd enough in other areas.

As Ron watched, she proved that oddity once more. Straining on her toes, Nanny slid the tray onto the table between Salomé and Cedric, heaving a heavy huff as she did so. "There. Nanny is bringing you your afters, Mistress. And Master Cedric too. You both must be eating up. Thin you is looking, Mistress, since you is being unwell."

Nanny certainly lived up to her name.

Neither Salomé nor Cedric got a chance to reply to the little old elf before a screech rung through the room. Every tongue of every diner at the table stilled, every raised fork paused as all eyes turned towards Kreacher where he'd turned from the pantry, arms laden with boxes of something or other, to stare horrified at the tray Nanny had placed down. "No! Nanny is not to be cooking! Cooking is Kreacher's duty. Kreacher's!"

"Kreacher, calm down, you stupid –" Sirius began, but he was cut off as the ancient elf continued.

"Kreacher's kitchen! Kreacher's duties! Kreacher is the one to be serving Mistress Salomé, not usurpers from other manor's!"

Ron blinked, stunned by the display. The slab of bread in his hand fell from his fingers, forgotten. He didn't need to glance around himself to see that others at the table were similarly stupefied. Even Sirius looked stumped as to how to respond, his jaw hanging open slightly and frowning at a loss.

All except for Salomé, who simply regarded the elf mildly. And Cedric, oddly enough, but then Ron should probably expect that. Cedric was naturally cool-headed, could remain collected in just about any situation. It was one thing that made him such a remarkable Auror. It was Cedric that turned to Kreacher in an attempt to mollify him. "Please, Kreacher, I sincerely doubt that Nanny meant any offence. Perhaps if you'd –"

"Kreacher is not talking to the Diggory boy," the elf shrieked once more. The boxes in his arms clattered to the floor in a heap as Kreacher swung to face Cedric, tiny fists balled and eyes squinting in a glare. "Diggory does not know or care of Kreacher's duties. Diggory does not understand the _presumption_ of this… this…" He spluttered off into accusing gesticulations at Nanny.

Well. So much for 'Master Diggory', Ron supposed. Apparently Kreacher's cordiality extended only so far, and only as a by-product to that he afforded to Salomé. Ron had been a mixture of affront and amusement for the past two days as to what to make of Kreacher's sudden subservience to Cedric. That explained it a little, and, guiltily, it actually made Ron feel a little better about the whole situation. He'd been quite put out that Kreacher hadn't flipped his attitude towards everyone else too. That right was reserved solely for Salomé, and Ron hardly even felt irked by that. He'd accepted for weeks now that Salomé was an exceptional case. In everything.

For her part, Salomé still remained silent, watching the house elf. She regarded him blankly for a moment, leaning with as much casualness as her straight-backed posture in her chair afforded, before turning towards Nanny with a raised eyebrow. Nanny, similarly silent, appeared to have been waiting for that single look. At Salomé's attention, she simply nodded shortly and crossed the room towards Kreacher.

It was like a stage show unfolding, and just like a show, Ron found himself caught by the entertainment. It was the most exciting thing to have happened in Grimmauld Place since Salomé had woken up.

Nanny stopped a foot from Kreacher and drew herself up to her full height. It was, Ron noticed, actually a fair bit taller than Kreacher, and not only because Kreacher was bowed under the weight of his years. Nanny was, as far as house elves went, quite tall. Almost intimidating, if one that barely stretched over three feet in height could be described as such.

"Now, listen here, you Kreacher," she began, and instantly Ron was put in mind of a scolding parent. Of his mother, to be precise. "Nanny is allowed to be cooking for her Mistress. It is Nanny's job."

"Kreacher is –"

" _Nanny's_ job," she overrode him. "Not Kreacher's, although Nanny will let him sometimes if Kreacher really, really wishes to. It has been Nanny's job to look after her Mistress for years. Years! Kreacher is not having the right to step in and take over. Kreacher doesn't know how best to care for Nanny's mistress. He doesn't know Mistress' favourite foods, or what time Mistress goes to sleep, or how Mistress likes her tea, or what books Mistress likes to read, and Kreacher's doesn't tell Mistress when she is being a silly little girl, or when she is supposed to be eating more vegetables, or when the blue stockings would match better with her dress than the grey ones…"

Ron blinked in stunned surprise as the ensuing tirade. Nanny truly did sound more like a mother than a house elf. A very attentive mother, but a mother all the same. She comported herself as one who made demands and expected them to be followed, who would give an order and reprimand those responsible for not completing it should it be shirked. And Kreacher, old, objectionable, grumbling Kreacher, was rendered mute before her performance. His ears twitched in little flickers and his eyes, though narrowed in a glare, were affixed upon the floor as though he truly were being scolded.

Ron glanced once more towards Salomé, if only to see what she made of it all, of Nanny's maternal act and whether it embarrassed her as much as it did Ron for simply witnessing it. Salomé's expression remained mild, however, a little curiously attentive perhaps but more amused by the entire situation than anything. A little approving, maybe? Doting herself? Almost as though she felt a modicum of the affection that Nanny so blatantly showed for her, if in more subdued expression.

As though she felt Ron's eyes upon her, Salomé spared him a sideways glance. Perhaps there was something on Ron's face that urged her into action, he wasn't sure, but a moment later she drew herself up in her seat slightly. "Nanny?"

"… helped Mistress since she was a little girl – yes, Mistress?" Nanny immediately snapped her attention to Salomé, barely missing a beat. Kreacher's unintelligible grumbles, previously drowned out by the other elf's rants, bubbled into audibility. Nanny ignored him.

Salomé cocked her head slightly in that way that she did, a way that Ron suspected held a lot more meaning than he'd come to discern for himself. His suspicions were confirmed when, a moment later, Nanny jerked her head in a nod and spun back towards Kreacher. "Kreacher will be coming with Nanny now." She snagged one of his floppy ears, eliciting an indignant squawk, before glancing back briefly towards. "Nanny will be checking with Master Diggory that Mistress has her afters. Too skinny, Mistress is looking."

"On my word," Salomé replied smoothly, raising a hand as though swearing an oath. Nanny nodded acceptingly and a second later disappeared with a squirming Kreacher in tow.

Silence fell upon the room. Stunned silence from the most, apart from Salomé and Cedric who exchanged a brief, knowing glance. As though such behaviour from Nanny, little, quite, unobtrusive and utterly devoted Nanny, was commonplace. Perhaps it was? Salomé reached forwards and removed the cover from the tray to reveal an impressive, still-steaming treacle tart. She smiled slightly, almost fondly at the sight of it, as though it elicited favourable memories.

"Tart, anyone?" Cedric said from her side.

It was that which finally thawed the rest of diners in the room. Drawing his eyes briefly along the table, Ron met the incredulous stares of his siblings, the objectionable discontent on Hermione's, his mother's confusion and something… a little amusement? Yes, that was definitely amusement radiating from Sirius. Clearly he wasn't the only one wondering what the hell they'd just witnessed.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Fred finally spoke up.

"What the bloody hell was what?" Salomé replied, the curse sounding odd yet somehow natural on her tongue. The faint hint of a smile suggested she wasn't a blissfully oblivious as she made out.

"The fact that we basically just witnessed a battle between house elves," George supplied.

"Hardly a battle," Ginny said.

"True," Salomé agreed. "Nanny obliterated him." And there was so much audible fondness in her tone, barely even touched by exasperation, that even Hermione couldn't object to her dismissal of Kreacher's plight.

"That sort of thing happens a lot?" Ron asked as his mother rose to her feet and took over the role of dishing out the tart. Ron accepted his own eagerly; bread, no matter how sweet or freshly made, couldn't compare to tart. His attention was so diverted that he barely even realised he'd spoken directly to Salomé until she replied.

Accepting her own slice of tart from Ron's mum with a slight inclination of her head, she shrugged. "Not particularly. But then, I can't say I'm surprised by Nanny's actions. She's a strong willed and assertive house elf."

"Strong willed and assertive?" Sirius said around a mouthful of dessert. "Not exactly typical characteristics of a house elf."

"Quite the contrary, actually," Cedric said. "Most house elves are very assertive in their subservience."

"That's a bit of a paradox, isn't it?" Bill said. Cedric only shrugged.

Salomé turned her attention back to Ron as she gracefully lifted her own dessert fork. The use of cutlery shouldn't be so elegant, he thought detachedly. "Nanny is awfully overprotective. I think she sees it as a personal insult to her maternal instincts that someone should seek to try to care for me other than she."

"Such devotion," Fleur sighed. She seemed almost wistful; Ron hadn't even known she'd wanted a house elf. "My mozzer's elves, zey do not speak so of zeir Masters. Eet eez a credit to her, zat she eez so faithful."

"A credit to her for her faithfulness?" Hermione said loudly from the other end of the table. Ron wasn't the only one who cringed in anticipation for the bombshell to hit. "A credit to her faithfulness?"

"Oui, zat eez what I said –"

"I don't think that such blind devotion should be encouraged, or that acting upon it be so praised," Hermione began. And just like that, Ron tuned out. He knew that she kept talking, that she got increasingly louder and actually overrode Fleur when the French woman attempted to interrupt her, but it was all white noise to him. He'd heard the same argument before countless times over the years, if in slightly different words.

Turning to Salomé, he shook his head with a roll of his eyes. "She never changes."

It was only when he actually met Salomé's gaze, when he observed the thoughtful, slightly surprised cast to her expression and realised that it was Salomé rather than Harry that he turned to, that he froze in awkwardness. He would have retracted his words if he could have, would have hunched himself over his plate and hastened to finish his dessert to escape the noise rising increasingly from Hermione at the other end of the table post haste. There was no avoiding it now, however, and Ron felt his cheeks flush in awkwardness. He really didn't like to be the object of Salomé's gaze. Disconcerting didn't even begin to cover it, and when she smirked as she was want to do…

Except she wasn't smirking. Salomé wasn't even frowning as Ron had half expected her to do, disgruntled that a plebeian such as himself would talk to her. She was more companionable these days, it was true, even almost nice sometimes, but the effects of living amongst upper class purebloods for years had left its mark upon her. One only had to observe how she held herself, how she sat at the dining table, to realise it.

Instead, however, that thoughtful surprise faded into something approaching a smile. Not a smirk, nor a sneer, nor even a condescending cousin of a smile. She appeared actually almost happy about something. Holding Ron's gaze for a moment longer she finally turned dropped her eyes down to her dessert. She shook her head faintly. "No, she doesn't. But then, would you really want her to?"

Salomé didn't wait for a reply, spearing her fork into the tart and scooping it in for a bite with a twisting flourish of her fork. A flourish that caught Ron's eye and held it. For impressive and almost pompous though it may be, as though taken from a pureblood's textbook, he recognised it. It was exactly the twist of the fingers that Harry had always done, often with pudding but always with treacle tart.

The tart had been Harry's favourite dish in the world, Ron recalled. And, observing Salomé's faint smile as she daintily picked at her portion, half-turning as Cedric muttered something in her ear inaudible over the sound of Hermione's exclamations, Ginny's attempts to placate her, Fleur's deflections and Fred and George's egging them on, he felt something well within him, something unexpected yet warm.

Shaking his head, suddenly eased from his urgency to flee the room, Ron turned his attention back towards his own tart. His stomach wasn't nearly as full to bursting as he usually stuffed it to, but he found his appetite somewhat diminished, caught in a wave of wistful nostalgia. Not regret, however, he realised. Not quite. It was with that nostalgia that he glanced sidelong at Salomé when he muttered, more to himself, "No. No I wouldn't. I'd never want her to change."

The very brief smile that Salomé spared him, barely a passing glance, was very faintly sad. Ron suspected Salomé knew as well as he did that it wasn't necessarily Hermione of which he spoke.


	13. Home (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so I didn't realise how much of a Salomé-adoration fest this chapter would be but it kind of turned out that way. Sorry if it's a little hard to stomach :p A little bit wordy I'm afraid but I hope that doesn't annoy you too much.
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading!

"Remind me again why I let you talk me into doing this?"

With her eyes closed, Hermione couldn't make out Salomé's expression to discern her response, but enough was indicated by the faint, distracted "Hmm" to know that once more her comment was brushed aside. Hermione sighed once more, giving a mental roll of her eyes. She held still, though, striving not to move an inch under Salomé's ministrations and tried not to flinch at the soft dabs of the brush on her eyelids.

She really was not partial to wearing makeup much at all. She avoided it at all costs, really. For the life of her, Hermione couldn't fathom why she had conceded to Salomé's request when asked to be the subject of her gussying up.

"Stop fidgeting, Hermione," Salomé murmured, her voice still low and distant in concentration. "I might stab you in the eye if you're not careful."

 _Yes, but would it be an accidental or an intentional eye-stab?_ Hermione couldn't help but wonder. Which was unfair, because Salomé wouldn't hurt her intentionally. Hermione was fairly certain, at least. But even unfair as it may be, there could be no denying that, when compared to Harry - the kind, gentle, faintly shy but ever-reliable Harry - Salomé would be a much more likely candidate of using an contouring brush as a weapon, and not only because Salomé was more prone to wearing makeup.

Still, Hermione strove to still the slight twitching of her face, the shifting in her seat, as directed thenceforth.

It was a strange situation to consider. A week ago Hermione would never have seen herself locked in her room with another girl being made up as though they were actually going out for the night. Not even if that girl was Ginny, and certainly not Salomé. And yet in the past few days one thing had become certain; Salomé had effectively turned Grimmauld Place on its head. Perhaps not deliberately, but such was the truth nonetheless.

Salomé was an interesting person. Her hardness, the coldness of character that Hermione had witnessed from the very first time she'd directly beheld the other girl, was still very noticeable. It was a characteristic that Hermione had always found somewhat deterring in others, distancing herself from such aloofness whenever possible.

And yet outside of that, there was more to Salomé. Yes, she was cold. Yes, she spoke with sharp sarcasm as often as not, and her wit was as honed as a well-wetted knife. And yes, at times Hermione would even say she was outright cruel and unnecessarily so, usually. But _apart_ from all of that... yes, Salomé was more.

Salomé kept her amusement in check, but it still rippled beneath the surface, just out of view and faintly softening her features when she thought no one was looking. There was good-humoured competitiveness to her remarks, her hardness eased by a faint twinkle in her eye and a quirked eyebrow as her verbal sparring partner sighed in defeat. And sometimes, just sometimes, Hermione thought she saw just a little bit of Harry in the Salomé. That barely-there hesitancy in the way she spoke to the Weasley's, to Sirius, to Hermione herself. The unexpected gentleness of her exasperated corrections when mistakes were made not from foolishness but ignorance in their research sessions. Even the faint fondness that she sometimes shed upon the guests of the old Order base. Or maybe not all of them, but certainly upon Cedric, if only when he wasn't looking.

And her strength. That strength, the determination of character that had been so prominent in Harry; Salomé had that too. Less blatantly that Harry had worn it, less verbally expressive and subtler in its pervasiveness, but it was certainly there.

Hermione had noticed. She'd seen it as she'd observed Salomé. It was those little elements, those features so reminiscent of her old friend - a lost friend whose absence Hermione had never really been able to recover from - that urged her to overlook those that would usually deter her from befriending another. It was the reason, Hermione was sure, that she'd submitted to being Salomé's dress-up doll in the first place. Anything to simply spend that little bit more time with her was good enough.

"Hermione," Salomé sighed, her voice less distracted this time. Mild irritation took its place instead. "I thought I told you not to fidget.'

"I can't help it," Hermione said. "I'm not used to this sort of thing."

"Well, there's no harm in playing around every now and then. And besides, you have wonderful skin for foundation."

Hermione felt her cheeks warm at the offhanded compliment. She strove to dismiss the upwelling of pride it induced, but coming from someone like Salomé - not Harry but _Salomé_ \- it truly was a compliment. Hermione didn't see her as someone likely to offer them freely.

"You still haven't told me why you're doing this." Hermione said blinking her eyes open when, after moments of no further touching up, she deemed Salomé to be finished. The image of the beautiful girl before her swum into view, focused on fiddling with a excessive amount little pouches and implements, dusters and hand-held mirrors. Hermione had no idea where she'd acquired them given she hadn't stepped outside even once, and certainly not in such magnitude. They were seated just the two of them on Hermione's lumpy bed, the night-dark room illuminated by their mutual _Lumos_ spells. It was strangely intimate in the quiet of isolation, and Hermione found it quite nice; she loved the Weasleys dearly, but their sheer number, and the fact that they were all currently residing at Grimmauld Place, made it a little impossible to avoid them for a brief respite of privacy.

Salomé shrugged one shoulder, not even glancing up. "You said you wanted to spend some time together."

"Yes," Hermione said slowly, "but I had in mind something more along the lines of spending the day together, getting some lunch or -"

"In the kitchen? In _that_ kitchen?" Salomé didn't lift her chin, simply peering at Hermione from beneath her lashes. "Because you know, I'm fairly certain that room is unsafe to even glance into, let alone sit down to dine in."

Hermione winced but had to silently agree to the sentiment. "Well, maybe a cafe or something, then."

"Of which one of us would be, unfortunately, unable to attend," Salomé said, a stick of lipstick liner to point directly at Hermione. "I'm currently under house arrest, Hermione, in case you had forgotten."

Hermione sighed. She hadn't forgotten, even if it wasn't expressly 'arrest', and not just for Salomé. She could hardly blame Salomé for her chiding. "I know. I was hoping though, maybe in future..."

"Of course." Salomé leant towards her and raised a hand, motioning Hermione into stillness. "In future. And I shall have to introduce you to the 'The Enchanted Swan' on Juniper Street. If you've not been then you are a traitor to every witch of Britain."

Hermione bit back a smile as Salomé set to dressing her lips in first liner then thick, burgundy paints. The simple comment kindled a spark of fondness within her. The manner of her address was entirely typical of Salomé. She wouldn't offer outright, that much Hermione had discovered, but would express her intentions in a roundabout way nonetheless. Hermione found she was looking forward to that future possibility, distant as it may be.

When Salomé finished with her lips, flicking her fingers in a faint flourish, Hermione spoke once more. "You didn't answer my question."

"I know," Salomé replied. And nothing more.

"So?" Hermione dipped her head to catch Salomé's avoiding eye; the girl was simply devious in dodging her attempts.

Shrugging again, Salomé set to packing the makeup implements away with practiced motions. "There is no reason in particular." She paused in the act of tucking the lip liner into a pouch but didn't glance up. "What exactly are you to Ron, Hermione?"

Hermione started, blinking rapidly at the abrupt question. All questions of her own immediately fled her mind. "Ron?"

"Yes, Ron. Are you seeing one another at present?"

A twinge in Hermione's chest cause her to hunch her shoulders. Ron was... "Ron and I... No, not at the moment. Not for some time, in fact."

"But you have been," Salomé prompted. She still wasn't looking at Hermione, focused upon her own preoccupation as she continued to pack away. She sounded nothing if not disinterested in the subject, which helped a little with Hermione's shortness of breath, but still. That questions... "How long since you've broken up?"

Swallowing, Hermione tucked her feet more firmly beneath her, slipping them into the folds of her night robe. They were already dressed for bed the two of them - another indication that the makeup session was _not_ for any particular purpose - and Hermione wore little more than a short slip beneath her robe. It felt suddenly cold in the room, which wasn't particularly unusual in and of itself given the general draughtiness of the house, but she suspected it had more to do with Salomé's questions.

"Why do you ask?"

Salomé finished with her packing away and crossed her legs upon the bed in a decidedly dainty fashion. She really was quite a vision, even in her own nightgown and hair un-styled, not a touch of make-up on her cheeks. Hermione could only be envious of that, and it made her questions just that much more painful. Was Salomé... possibly interested? In Ron? Personally, Hermione hadn't seen any evidence to suggest as much, but then who knew of her preferences? Hermione didn't even know if she favoured men particularly, despite her obvious and forced relationship with Riddle. She _had_ been a boy for fourteen years of her life, after all.

Salomé tilted her head and regarded Hermione thoughtfully. "Are you upset for something?"

Snorting in a near sob - when had she gotten herself so worked up? - Hermione shook her head. "I'm not upset. Of course not. No, Ron and I haven't been together since... not for a few months, really."

"Is it that which upsets you, then?"

Again Hermione shook her head, sniffing away her self-pity. "Hardly. We've broken up and gotten back together more times than I've cared to count." Which wasn't true, but Salomé didn't need to know that. "It always happens the same way; we fight, we break up, Ron pretends to fool around with some girl or other - usually that airhead Lavender Brown - and then starts moping because he misses being in a real relationship with depth and meaning. Then he'll apologise with big puppy-dog eyes, approach me with his tail between his legs and... and I have no idea why I'm telling you all of this."

Mortified at her flapping tongue, Hermione raised a hand to cover her mouth. She paused at the last moment, however, to catch herself before she smeared her lipstick. She'd never been so open with anyone before on the subject, never so bluntly expressed her thoughts on the matter and yet somehow with Salomé... God, Hermione could only hope Salomé was somehow less perceptive in the matter of relationships than she was with everything else.

Salomé was still regarding her, her head still slightly tilted, but there was a faint smirk that was almost a smile touching the corners of her lips. "Goodness, you've gotten yourself into a bit of a fix, haven't you, Hermione?"

"I most certainly have not!"

"Ah, but you have. I wonder..." Salomé raised a single finger to tap idly on her chin. "Are you perhaps in love with him?"

Hermione's jaw flopped open, too wide and limp for her to even manage a splutter. A faint mew cracked from the back of her throat, but she hardly considered that a reply. How did Salomé -?

"And are you perhaps jealous at the thought that I might pursue him as a potential lover?"

It was a wonder that Hermione's eyes didn't fall from her skull. Salomé really was perceptive. A little too perceptive at times, it would seem. Choking to swallow, struggling to form words, Hermione, dropped her eyes to her hands. She hadn't even noticed that she was twisting the hems of her sleeves in a death grip. "I'm not – it's not like –" She struggled with another awkward swallow and couldn't hold back the words that flooded forth. "Are you?"

"Hm?" Salomé raised an eyebrow in an expression so intentionally confused it was nearly laughable.

"Are you intending to pursue him? As a – a potential lover?" Hermione, voice still strangled, repeated Salomé's turn-a-phrase. It was a terrifying thought because beside Salomé _any_ girl would surely fall short in the eyes of a hot-blooded man. Surely. Hermione had never been profoundly aware of her physicality before. Not before now. For one of the first times in her life Hermione felt utterly self-conscious of her appearance. Ron's words from that morning resounded in her mind. Hermione didn't even know how they had come up; something pertaining to how Salomé dressed which somehow segued into Hermione herself.

_"_ _Nah, Hermione's never been one to care about how she looks. Never worn a dab of make-up in your life except for maybe at the Yule Ball, have you Hermione." Ron spared her a glance that was somewhere between a smile and a smirk. "Always more focus on the brains than the beauty, right?"_

He'd said it because he knew Hermione thought it was true. Because she _did_ care more about brains than beauty, and she'd never felt the need to either cover herself or enhance herself because of make-up. She knew Parvati and Lavender both partook, and more for their own personal satisfaction than for the benefit of anyone else, but Hermione never had. She'd never wanted to until…

 _That's probably where Salomé_ _got the idea for this damned idea from in the first place._

Even as Hermione thought as much, recalling that conversation and cringing at the memory, an actual smile was spread across Salomé's face. It was even more upsetting to behold in that it served to make her only more beautiful. _How unfair_ , Hermione thought, only to feel guilty for the unjust murmur. Salomé didn't deserve that and blessedly didn't seem to perceive Hermione's thoughts when she replied. "Me? Pursue Ron?" She let her eyes drift to the side contemplatively for a moment and Hermione froze. She was irritated by Ron much of the time – most of the time – and he often said blunt and tactless things, but if Salomé… surely Salomé wouldn't…

Hermione's sinking heart stuttered in its descent a moment later when Salomé continued. "By Morgana no, I would never attempt to do such a thing. That would be far too strange. To consider Ron that way?" She shook her head in a flutter of misshapen curls. "Never."

"But..." Finally able to breathe once more, if with a bit of a struggle, Hermione's thoughts kicked back into gear. Confusion and scepticism mingled. _Then why had Salomé even asked that_? "But you could. If you wanted to."

"Could what?"

"Pursue him. Or - I don't know the word - catch him?" Hermione dropped her gaze to where she picked at her sleeve once more. "If you wanted to, you could have any man."

Salomé was shaking her head again, more insistently this time. Condescension was writ across her face. "Oh, Hermione, I most certainly could not. And definitely not Ron."

"You could -"

"Not. Ron is very much smitten with you, you should know." Her smile was patronising in a teasing sort of way, and it irked Hermione to no end as much as it left her bemused and just a little stunned. "He's just too blind to see it most of the time. Perhaps he's simply too accustomed to seeing you as his childhood friend and not enough as the woman you really are." Her lips quirked slightly as she regarded Hermione blatantly enough that Hermione felt warmth touch her cheeks once more. "Have more confidence in your own stance and he'll be able to see it too. Even without make-up the blind and stupid can perceive as much if you step forth first."

"He is not!" Hermione exclaimed in a sudden bout of indignation. For some reason it made her unnecessarily angry to consider the prospect, though she wasn't sure if it was Ron's smitten state or his apparent blindness and stupidity she insinuating. Ron _wasn't_. Ron wasn't smitten and he wasn't blind. Or, well, maybe he was a bit blissfully unaware a lot of the time but that didn't mean... of course he wasn't. There was no way. If he truly was in love with Hermione, surely he would have said something, wouldn't he? Why hadn't he said anything? "He is not smitten. And even if he was, you could most certainly entrap him if you wished. You're absolutely gorgeous, Salomé. Of _course_ any man would take someone like you over me."

As soon as the words spilled from Hermione's mouth she wished she could suck them back in. If only. If only there were a spell to erase verbal blunders. This time Hermione really did clap her hand over her mouth, lipsticks smears unconsidered.

The damage had been done, however. Like a Freezing Charm, Salomé's face hardened and seemed to chill into icy coldness. Her eyes became hooded, and any good humour she'd worn earlier in the evening disappeared.

And Hermione knew exactly why.

It wasn't – or wasn't solely – to do with the looseness Hermione had unconsciously suggested. It was more than that. Salomé hated being reminded of her own physicality. Of the beauty that was not a gift but a curse to her, the beauty that Riddle had shaped her into, against her will and against that which was natural for her. Far from preening and prideful, any compliment towards Salomé's figure, the fineness of her features, the fact that Hermione was very certain she could roll out of bed in the morning looking like a supermodel, was met with one of two responses: one, that she would adopt that cunning Apprentice guise that unnerved Hermione so much and dextrously befuddle and unhinge everyone in the room within hearing to divert the subject, or two, that she would respond with disagreement, aversion or, in extreme cases, outright repulsion. Hermione honestly didn't know which was worse.

It was clear, however, from the closed expression settling on Salomé's face, the straightening of her spine and the flatness of her gaze as she turned towards an unknowable point across the dimly lit room, that the latter was unfolding. Hermione felt absolutely horrified for the fact, more so that she had been the one to induce it.

"Salomé – Salomé, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it, truly I didn't. I was just upset, and I – I don't know what came over me." It was entirely true. Hermione wasn't one to babble, at least not for anything other than academic pursuits and certainly not with idle gossip or unfounded criticism. But babble she had, and obviously put her foot in it this time. Horribly, cruelly stuck her toes into the deep end. She'd never been particularly socially adept, never had very many friends, and –

"It's alright, Hermione," Salomé replied, her voice low and flat. She didn't sound at all forgiving; that characteristic that had been present in Harry had evidently been lost over the years. "No harm done."

"No, no really," Hermione pleaded. For it was a plead, there was no denying it. "I'm truly sorry. It was uncalled for, and rude. I – I didn't mean to insinuate that you would, um... that you'd steal... or that you were... that -" She stuttered and stumbled over her own tongue, flapping as haphazardly as a fish out of water. "I'm so sorry."

"You need not -"

"No, I really must!" Remorse had set its teeth into Hermione and there was no way she was backing down until she convinced Salomé of the sincerity of her apology. "Please believe me. Tell me how to show you how sorry I am. Please, I am so sorry, I'll do anything." And she would, Hermione realised. Whether it be the memory of Harry or Salomé's draw herself, Hermione desperately wanted the other girl to stop shutting her out. To open up to her and to be her friend. It was a strange desire, one she'd rarely felt before, which was probably why it had taken her so long to realise what it was.

Salomé turned her head slowly towards Hermione. Her gaze had defrosted just slightly, her face becoming slightly less rigid. Rather than closed and disdainful - which Hermione had interpreted after much study over the past few days to loosely correlate to an expression of hurt - faded slightly into careful consideration. "Anything, you say?"

Before Hermione really considered the weight of the question or her response, she found herself nodding fervently. "Yes. Yes, of course."

She watched as Salomé's face shifted. It drifted from scepticism to light consideration, to deeper contemplation and finally into satisfaction. The succession all happened in rapid flickers so that Hermione found she had little time to register one expression before the next overrode it. When her face finally settled into something Hermione couldn't quite discern, it was swept into blankness a moment later. Salomé instead shifted her gaze towards the door across the room. Hermione followed with her own and had time to open her mouth to question, for her ears to prick at the sounds of footsteps on the creaking floorboards outside, before Salomé flowed into action.

"Alright, then." Salomé unfolded herself from her cross-legged seat, slid off the bed and, grasping Hermione's arm in a firm grip, dragged her after her. Hermione was rendered tripping with confusion as, seemingly without cause, Salomé spun her about on her feet, relieved her of her night robe, and chivvied her to the door.

"What -?"

"You said anything, yes, Hermione?" Salomé tugged the door open with one sweeping motion, turning questioningly to Hermione. At the almost nervous nod of reply, she gave a curt smile that was more of a smirk. "Well, then. Humour me." And with that Salomé pushed Hermione from the room – from _her_ room – to stumble into the hallway. Hermione only just managed to catch herself on the opposite wall as she heard the click of the door shutting behind her and the _snick_ of a lock.

Hermione blinked, staring as her confusion only mounted. What was that all about? The door was silent and very definitely locked, and Hermione had absolutely no idea what Salomé was talking about. Or why she had pushed her from the bedroom.

"What happened?"

Still leaning against the wall, Hermione turned towards the voice a little down the hallway. Cedric – because of course it was Cedric; he was paranoid and irrationally overprotective, rarely leaving Salomé's side even when his accompaniment was entirely unnecessary – leant against the wall alongside her, arms folded across his chest and a half-smile on his face. He wasn't dressed for bed but in casual clothes, a loose jumper and jeans stuffed into worn boots. The way he leant was entirely comfortable, as though he could stand there for hours. Which, given it was Cedric, he likely had.

Shaking her head, Hermione opened her mouth to reply, except that a moment later she caught a glimpse of the person standing stock still down the hallway just past Cedric. He was frozen as though _Stupefied_. Hermione, entirely too aware of her semi-clad state – which oddly enough didn't seem to be of concern to Cedric – and her newly made-up face, Hermione felt herself blush in fiery embarrassment.

"Ron!" Her voice was, pathetically, little more than a squeak.

Ron was blinking dumbly back at her, staring and making no attempt to hide the fact that he was shamelessly ogling. It was almost as though he'd never seen her before in next to nothing. In quite literally nothing, even. The almost inaudible snort of amusement from Cedric made it very clear that none of them were in even the slightest doubt as to what had rendered Ron immobilised.

Crossing her arms over her chest and raising her chin – because Ron shouldn't be _seeing_ her so scantily clad. They weren't even dating! – Hermione fought to keep her head high and ignore the heat rising in her cheeks. Salomé's words rose unbidden in the back of her mind like a nagging parrot. _Confidence…_ What utter bollocks. Not that Hermione wouldn't use it anyway. "What?"

Ron only kept blinking, slowly and stupidly. When he finally spoke, he seemed in a bit of a daze. "Hermione, what, um… what did you do to your face?"

Scowling, Hermione lifted her chin further. She was still mortifyingly embarrassed, but indignation was rising alongside it. Really, what right did he have to stare."It's called makeup, Ron. Really."

"Oh. Um, well, I've – I've hardly ever seen you with it before. It looks…" Ron went right back to staring.

Suddenly it all made a twisted kind of sense. Salomé's illogical decision to undertake the girly session, the abrupt throwing her from the bedroom, the expression that followed her satisfaction that was… _cunning_. Salomé had known _exactly_ who was outside the door and thrown Hermione to the wolves. Or the one wolf, at least.

 _What exactly is she hoping to achieve?_ Hermione wondered detachedly through her haze of embarrassment and affront that Ron would be staring _now_. _Now_ he looked? Honestly, if there was anything that would make Hermione widen her stance and cuff him across the ear it was this. She didn't need makeup to give her confidence, and she didn't need Ron's admiration either. She frowned in thought. To her, Salomé's actions didn't really make sense, except that…

_Well, it forced me to realise that, at least. I don't need it and I don't want it, and Ron's opinion's could be damned._

Ignoring the fact that Salomé's suggested 'confidence' did indeed appear to be showing itself, Hermione turned a glare back to the closed door as she raised her voice. "Salomé! This was _not_ what I had in mind as a means of apologising!"

There was no reply but Hermione was was certain that she could feel Salomé smiling in self-satisfaction in the closeted room.

Spinning on her heel, resolutely dropping her protectively folded arms to her sides, Hermione strode down the hallway without a backwards glance at either Cedric or Ron. And if the image of Ron's openly appreciative and wide-eyed gaze hung within her mind for the rest of the night… well. Hermione didn't need that. Salomé and her make-up be damned, for she didn't need it at all.

* * *

Seamus' laugh was the loudest. The loudest and the most infectious. When he set about cackling with merriment, it was a herculean trial to resist the temptation to do the same, even had anyone wanted to.

Ginny didn't particularly want to. She was enjoying herself far too much, and the fit of giggles that gripped her as Seamus completed his jovial tale with a flourishing of his fingers simply felt natural. She snorted into her bottle of Elder V, the sharp burn of vodka chased away by the musky sweetness that overlaid it. She held her drink well, Ginny knew, far better than Hermione who was already half-asleep in her seat across the room, but it was nearly eleven o'clock and the Gryffindor Boys had been over for some time already.

That was the name that everyone gave them. The Gryffindor Boys. Even as graduated young adults, Seamus and Dean would always be grouped as the adolescent pair from their ex-house. The fact that they'd been dating solidly for nearly three years only solidified the dual sentiment. Neville and Ron, both similarly ex-Gryffindors, were bereft of the title. Neither seemed particularly concerned for being overlooked.

It had been a hazy, joy-filled evening. Since dinner at seven, Ginny, alongside all four ex-Gryffindor boys, Fred and George, Hermione, Cedric and Salomé, had retreated into the second floor drawing room. It was a 'party for the young', Remus had said, and Ginny was more than happy to accept that exclusivity. Sirius not so much, but he obliged at a pointed nudge from Remus. Seamus and Dean had only Flooed over from their own hidden retreat for the night, so were making the most of the temporary respite. They were always good value so Ginny couldn't complain.

The room was cluttered as it was, even absented of the additional figures of Sirius, Remus, and the older, 'more mature' individuals of Ginny's family. What with the grand piano and dusty seating shunted to one side to make room for a trio of beds, it was almost uncomfortably tight, but that hardly mattered. Besides, the beds only offered more seating for the admittedly overflowing room.

Seamus had pulled out a carton of Elder V, sharing the strong liquor around to be sipped at sparingly. It didn't take much – a swirl of the drink immediately lightened the mood, lowered inhibitions and afforded a blurry, glowing edge to every surface. Ginny was rather fond of the drink for the buzz that it filled her with even if she wasn't really partial to the sweetness of the flavour. She liked what it did to the others too, and being particularly level headed and capable of holding her own after a few meant that she was able to witness the antics of her friends and actually remember it to tell the tale.

By eleven o'clock, the V had well and truly set its teeth into the collective minds of everyone in the second floor. To the chimes of the clock shunted into the corner, Ginny took the time to glance around herself, filling her mouth with another gulp of the musky sweet liquid.

Hermione was actually asleep now. Her light snores – for she did snore, no matter how she maintained she did not; Ginny slept between her and Fleur every night and _knew_ – were barely audible over the chatter that Seamus kept up at a steady and largely unintelligible pace. Ginny, half-curled in her own armchair and wedged beside Neville, who feigned attentiveness, supposed he was still talking to them both, but she'd lost the train of his words long ago. He didn't seem to notice.

Dean lazed at the other end of the bed his boyfriend sprawled upon, a half-empty bottle cradled in one hand and Seamus' legs resting in his lap. Seamus himself was reclined along the length of the mattress, his cheeks flushed ruddily, and though he continued to speak in babbles broken by laughter, it was directed more towards the ceiling to anyone in specifically. Another burst of his laughter rung through the room as Dean batted his bare toes in more of a tickle than a swat. Who knew Seamus was so ticklish?

Ron was hunkered on the floor beside Hermione's chair. It was where he appeared to have taken up residence for the last few days, Ginny reflected with a smirk. He was very firmly entrenched in his 'chasing Hermione like a duckling after its mother' phase. He'd acquired a rug of sorts from somewhere, one that was fluffy yet more from dust than anything else, Ginny suspected, and actually leant against Hermione's legs with a sickeningly loving expression on his face. Ginny didn't know what had spurred him into his cyclical pursuit once more, but it was both amusing and a little horrifying to witness. Repeated exposure didn't help in the slightest.

Across the other side of the room, engrossed in their four-way conversation as they had been for the last hour, were Fred, George, Cedric and Salomé. The twins stretched along the other beds, with Fred, as usual, far more lucid than George. Ginny had always found it funny that they were so different in how well they handled drunkenness; George largely lost the ability to eloquently use his tongue after a while and had to rely on Fred as his mouthpiece. Which he did profusely that night, the reason being the focus of his attention. Of Fred's attention, too, and, naturally, Cedric's.

Ginny's too, in her sidelong glances shared an attentiveness that she'd maintained for the past week.

Ron openly blamed the general fascination with Salomé as a whole on the pervasive boredom that had gripped the house. That their need to stay low and undercover, to avoid the Dark witches and wizards that were currently scouring London, meant that they were effectively trapped inside Grimmauld Place and the conjoined safe havens, and that anything even vaguely novel or interesting would spark unnecessary fixation. "To alleviate boredom", Ron always came back to.

Ginny knew he was lying. She knew he was simply making excuses. It was true that their communal boredom that had manifested after the initial bout of fear that carried undertones of triumph from the speculated final Horcrux's destruction had likely contributed to the general interest in Salomé. But it wasn't just that, Ginny knew. Not for Hermione, or for Sirius, or for Fred and George, Neville or the Gryffindor boys. Certainly not for Cedric, or for Ginny herself. And for all that Ron claimed he was still wary of her, that Salomé hadn't "proved herself" to him adequately enough yet, Ginny sensed a certain waning in his aversion to her. He didn't hate her anymore, if he ever had. Ginny didn't think he was all that different from the rest of them in their general consideration of Salomé; it was with a mixture of curiosity, bemusement, growing fondness and a very definite respect that somehow managed to smother the distrust that had been at the forefront of their collective minds before that week.

Salomé was a study, one that Ginny was very much fascinated by as she never had been for any at school. She was sarcastic and dry, offering snide remarks that as often as not bordered on cruel. She possessed a beauty that was almost ethereal, almost too perfect, and Ginny had no difficulty considering it 'magically made' as Salomé had once called it. She used that beauty too, the evidence demonstrated on numerous occasions and quite frequently on Fred and George to get them to shut up or, in any situation, do exactly what she wanted them to do. For all of their own mischievousness, Ginny had come to the realisation that they were remarkably incapable of dealing with superior manipulation. The strangest part was that Ginny's mother didn't even seem to mind. If anything she seemed to find it funny.

But it wasn't all manipulation and underhanded remarks that knocked everyone on the head like the gong on a bell. Salomé did have a sharp tongue, but she seemed to be making an effort to lay some restraint upon her inclination towards more scathing remarks. It was something that she very pointedly hadn't done before arriving at Grimmauld Place. Her sarcastic wit and dry humour grew to overwhelm the more disconcerting demonstrations of such characteristics, and Ginny had found herself more and more frequently over the past days laughing genuinely rather than for politeness.

More than that, however, was that Salomé was making a very good show of proving that she wasn't, as Ron had said, as the twins had half-heartedly pondered aloud, evil. If the destruction of the Horcruxes wasn't enough, she seemed to have thrown herself solely into formulating a plan, or at least readying herself, for the eventual confrontation with Riddle. Alongside the ever-present Cedric, and oftentimes Sirius, Remus, Hermione and the odd sibling of Ginny's, Salomé spent the majority of her time in the Black Archives. Ginny had attempted on several occasions to join them purely out of her incessant 'boredom' and the need to feel as though she was doing something productive.

She'd walked back out of the library within the hour every time, her mind abuzz and shaking her head over the realisation that, in such a setting, Ginny was well and truly out of her depth. A glance at Hermione had informed her that her friend was only barely keeping her own head above water, and Hermione was far smarter, far more learned, than Ginny was. Ginny didn't stand a chance of understanding most of what passed within those walls, and was left to seek entertainment for herself while awaiting the barest hint of development on the Ending Riddle situation.

However, to the contrary of what might be speculated, what might be assumed after time had passed, the excitement had died down and the novelty toy had lost its lustre and interest, Ginny found Salomé only more intriguing. No, intriguing wasn't quite the right word. Ginny didn't know exactly how she felt about Salomé, only that it was in no way as cautious or wary as it perhaps should have been.

Salomé wasn't Harry, yet Ginny felt herself just as inexplicably drawn to her as she had been to the Boy-Who-Lived.

For not the tenth or even the twentieth time that night, Ginny found herself staring at Salomé. At the slight curl at the corners of her lips as she cocked her head at something that Fred was saying, at the delicate and formally lady-like way she tucked her feet beneath the chair she sat upon in a way that Ginny knew, even with four years of practice, she herself would never be able to perform with such easy grace. She flickered her gaze to the gentle fall of Salomé's long hair as it coiled over her shoulders, each erratic tuft that had been chopped shorter by the Fiendfyre seemingly pointedly loosened rather than having springing free of its own accord. Salomé had perfect poise in her posture that seemed to accentuate every line of her neck, the curve of her waist, the narrow lines of her shoulders and slender limbs. In looking at her, Ginny was abruptly regretful of the provision of her own clothes earlier that morning; even improperly fitting, the worn jeans and tank top, the simple cardigan draped on her shoulders, seemed far too revealing.

Ginny fathomed that just about anything would seem too revealing. She evidently wasn't the only one who'd noticed, either; Fred and George had barely left Salomé's side the entire night, Ron had been very pointedly averting his gaze and even Neville had stared for a time before flushing and muttering an apology to Ginny. Ginny hadn't minded and could hardly complain as she had been staring just the same and for quite the same reasons. It was baffling how, even after a week, Salomé could still cause her to stop, to stare, and to very deliberately question her sexuality.

In fact, the only one who didn't seem particularly mind-numbed by Salomé's very presence – for even Seamus and Dean had been a little captivated – was Cedric. Or perhaps he had simply always been fully enthralled and acted no differently to how he normally did. Enthralled was definitely the right word to describe Cedric's attentiveness; he acted as though Salomé was the centre of his universe.

Perhaps she was.

A nudge of an elbow into her ribs drew Ginny's attention to Neville at her side. She fought to suppress a blush at being caught staring – everyone stared, so why would she doing so be anything noteworthy? – and raised a questioning eyebrow at her boyfriend. "What?"

In reply, Neville nodded across the room towards where Hermione and Ron were still curled. Very much together, Ginny noticed, Ron having actually wrapped an arm around Hermione's hanging leg and setting to stroking it absently as she slept. "I think Ron's realised he was an idiot for letting Hermione break it off with him before. Again."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "How predictable," she said, although she had to wonder what had brought on the sudden change of heart. Sitting up in her seat, she raised her voice to be heard across the room. "Hey, Hermione. Don't let that brother of mine run you for a fool again. You know he's an arse."

Hermione started from her doze and blinked rapidly as she pushed herself up to sitting straight. Ginny smirked, thoroughly satisfied as Ron quickly dropped his arm from her leg and turned a hateful scowl towards her. Hermione didn't seem to notice the glare he turned Ginny's way. "What?"

"Ron. Is he your little puppy dog again?"

"Ginny, shut your gob," Ron grumbled, which only served to make Ginny's smirk widen. It helped that just about everyone in the room had turned their attention towards the situation now. Ginny quite fancied being the centre of attention.

Hermione blinked blearily down at Ron. A fond smile, not at all like the exasperated frown Ginny had anticipated, drifted onto her lips and served to quell Ron's rising discontent. It was a testament to how drunk the both of them were that they smiled with such obvious affection at one another under the direct attention of everyone in the room. Fred grimaced to the accompaniment of George's dry heaving, the Gryffindor Boys shared a bleary frown, and Neville cringed. Salomé and Cedric's shared glance, however, carried a very knowing light that Ginny vowed to get to the bottom of. It was entirely too knowing for her peace of mind. Or for her gossip-mongering mind, though she would ever claim herself to be as such.

"Smitten would be quite an apt description," Salomé said just loud enough to be heard. By all of them, funnily enough, which drew a vibrant flush from both Hermione and Ron.

"I'm not!" They both exclaimed in unison, and only flushed the harder for it to the communal laughter of all in the room. Even Salomé cracked a wide smile, and Cedric – the recently stoic Cedric whose cold distancing had only just begun to thaw since his arrival at Grimmauld Place – uttered a few chuckles.

"Aw, is wittle Won Won finally weddy to admit he's in wuv?" Fred teased.

Ron lobbed a dusty pillow at him, nearly hitting Cedric on the head as it passed him. "I said _shut up_ , you."

"Yep, he's definitely yours, Hermione," Seamus said, his Irish accent thickening in a sleepy slur. "You make sure you keep 'im dancing on 'is toes for as long as you can, yeah?"

Hermione's flush had died in her cheeks to be replaced by amusement. Her brief doze appeared to have instilled some small sense of sobriety upon her for she didn't seem nearly as bleary as she had. "I wouldn't be so cruel," she said, fighting a smile in reply to the grateful glance Ron afforded her. It faded into a thoughtful frown a moment later, however. "Dancing… that reminds me, actually. Salomé, I've been meaning to ask you how did you got your name." She turned from Ron with such abruptness that he was left blinking in bafflement at the back of her head.

Salomé arched her eyebrow in a gesture of warning that Ginny had become very familiar with over the past week. "Excuse me?"

"Your name," Hermione repeated. Apparenlty she wasn't as sober as Ginny had anticipated for she didn't seem fazed in the slightest by the warning edge to Salomé's tone, nor the uneasiness that abruptly wove through the room and caused Neville to shift uncomfortably and Dean to make pointed silencing gestures to the oblivious Hermione. "I was just curious. I mean, it's a biblical name, right?"

"And?"

"And I didn't think most witches and wizards adhered to a Christian denomination. I couldn't really think of what the meaning was behind it. So I thought…" Hermione trailed off as Salomé's face visibly blanked. Her shoulders hunched and she seemed to sink into her seat slightly. "Sorry," Hermione mumbled.

Salomé didn't answer. It was Cedric instead who came to the rescue. With a glance at Salomé, who met his gaze with a hooded one of her own that had also become very familiar, he leant forwards in his seat slightly and offered a small smile to Hermione. It served to ease just the slightest amount of tension from her shoulders. "Well, you were right in your assumption, Hermione."

Hermione blinked up at him, confused. "I was?"

"Dancing."

"Dancing?"

"Most definitely."

"What does that mean?" Ginny felt as though she were watching a tennis match as the words bounced between the two of them.

Cedric's smile widened slightly as he turned back to Salomé. "Salomé dances. Enchantingly, if I would be so bold as to state."

"Most bold of you to say, sir," Salomé murmured, though there was a slightly quirk in the corner of her lips that had Ginny releasing a breath she hadn't realised she'd held as she felt the storm pass. The easing of the tangible tension in the room suggested she wasn't the only one who felt it.

"You dance?" Ginny asked, her attention not on Cedric but on Salomé.

Salomé turned her attention towards her and blinked slowly once, twice, before replying. "Yes, I do indeed."

"What sort of dancing?"

After another pause, Salomé lifted a single shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "Whatever I feel like."

"You wouldn't be the only one," Seamus spoke up, evidently having felt himself silent for too long. "I've quite a pair of dancing feet meself." He grinned broadly in self-satisfaction.

"You'd like to think you do," Dean said with a sigh.

"Hey, are you undermining me?"

"Saving you from a social blunder, you mean?"

"What ever happened to the supportive boyfriends of the world?"

"Oh, they're all lost in Cedric," Dean replied with a nod of his head towards across the room. Ginny wasn't the only one who raised her eyebrows at the suggestion of the gesture. Salomé and Cedric exchanged a sidelong glance that was so brief and yet so laden with meaning that Ginny simply longed to be a fly on the wall for the conversation that was surely to come. "Besides, I am supportive. I supported your attempt at a quidditch career."

There was a unanimous groan through the room that effectively distracted everyone from the previous comment. Neville dropped his forehead onto Ginny's shoulder in a cringe. "Yes, and we all know how well that went," he said.

"Whatever potion made y'think yeh could ride a broom, Seam, I need ta get m'hands on," George said, although it came out barely intelligible.

"You suck at quidditch," Fred added.

"Maybe it would have been a bit better to not be quite so supportive in that instance?" Ron suggested, his grin a little too satisfied. Ginny guessed it was likely due as much to the diversion of attention from himself as any particularly malicious intent towards Seamus.

"I think you'd be right," Dean nodded.

"Hey, hey, I think we're getting a bit off track here," Seamus spoke up with unnecessarily volume, swatting at Dean as he heaving himself off the end of the bed. "Dancing, right? How's about we start some dancing?"

"How's about _you_ sit down before you hurt yourself?" Dean sighed, reaching forward to tug Seamus back to his seat.

Ginny was suddenly caught by the idea, however, and not in the least because it would be Salomé that did the dancing. She turned back towards her and… how had she even missed that Salomé could dance? She was elegant in every line of her seat, as though fluid even in stillness. Ginny should have simply guessed. "Would you do a dance for us, Salomé?"

Salomé wasn't even looking at Ginny when she spoke. She had her eyes trained directly upon Cedric, in an unreadable stare that Ginny could only guess at the meaning behind. Was she annoyed at him for speaking up for her? Grateful? Or was it concerning something else entirely?

Hermione jumped on Ginny's words, however. "Oh, would you? You can dance, can't you, Salomé? That's what Cedric said and I mean…" Hermione glanced at Cedric for confirmation who, predictably, had eyes only for Salomé. "If you wouldn't mind. You wouldn't be too embarrassed?"

"Embarrassed," Cedric echoed, and he tilted his head under Salomé's stare. "A Praesulmagus hardly has anything to be embarrassed about when it comes to dancing."

Abruptly, Ginny felt like a peeping tom in a moment of intimacy between the two of them. She shared a glanced sidelong with Neville and from the faint flush of his cheeks knew she wasn't the only one to feel as much.

Hermione, however, as inquisitive as ever and blinded by her knowledge-seeking mode, gasped loud enough that Ron having moved to perch awkwardly on the arm of her chair, nearly tumbled to the floor. "You're a Praesulmagus?" She asked. She sounded nearly euphoric at the prospect.

Ginny frowned. There was something she was missing, she knew. Dancing magic… that was what Praesulmancy was. She'd never really considered it, having no particular interest in that denomination of Synchrynomancy herself; if Ginny were to pursue such dual arts, merging magic with a talent of her own, she would probably pick… but no, that would be silly. She wasn't skilled enough for that, not by half.

Something had exchanged between Salomé and Cedric with his words, some conclusion reached while Hermione bounced excitedly in her seat, Ron regained his balance on the arm, Seamus struggled against Dean to clamber from his bed to participate and Fred and George adopted eager expressions that carried a hint of the bafflement that Ginny felt herself. Something profound indeed, if it could invoke such a small if reserved smile from Salomé. To the sound of Hermione's chattering, her explanation to a dubious Ron at her side about the "beauty and wonder" of Synchrynomancy and how "only a few very dedicated and very expert artists could do it", Salomé leant towards Cedric and murmured something inaudible. Then she rose to her feet with the elegance of the dancer that she supposedly and very likely was and stepped into the centre of the room.

Fred was on his feet in an instant, a wavering George a moment later. "We'll go and get Sirius' old record player then, yeah?" Fred suggested, already making a beeline to the door.

"No need," Salomé shrugged. "I'll just use my wand."

"Your wand?" Hermione asked curiously.

"A Mimicry spell," Ginny informed her distractedly, eyes already glued on Salomé as she slipped her shoes off. "Record a tune and replay it with _Imitationo._ You probably haven't heard of it, Hermione, because it's sort of specialised –"

"And you have?" Ron cut in, rolling his eyes. Probably at the slight towards Hermione's knowledge, though Hermione herself appeared merely curious rather than put out.

Neville spoke up for Ginny with a nod. "Yeah, when we play together."

"Play?" Salomé asked, pausing in the act of folding her socks to place atop her similarly folded cardigan. Fred and George made their way around her back to their seats, leaning forward with identical eagerness, elbows propped upon knees.

Ginny shrugged, a tad self-consciously. "I sing sometimes. Neville plays strings –"

"Only a bit," he muttered, his own self-consciousness ringing through his tone. He offered Ginny a small smile, however.

"Mostly guitar, but a bit of the harp sometimes," Ginny continued, returning Neville's smile.

"The harp?" Seamus snorted explosively, finally giving up on his attempts to clamber to his feet and join Salomé in the middle of the room. Or perhaps more correctly he was prevented from doing so. The makeshift dance floor was barely three-by-three meters after Hermione, with a sweep of her wand, had thoughtfully cleared it to the best of her ability. No one even batted an eyelid as their chairs slid to the walls, Seamus and Dean's bed nearly tipping the mattress onto the floor in its abrupt slide and Seamus to the ground with it.

 _Serves him right for picking on Neville,_ Ginny thought with a frown at the offender. Seamus didn't even notice so she shifted her attention turned back to Salomé. Only to meet curiously narrowed eyes without a hint of the disregard or ridicule that touched them more often than not. A small smile unfurled upon Salomé's lips and would have stuttered Ginny's tongue to a standstill had she not already been silent. "Perhaps you could show me sometime?" She asked.

Ginny could only nod in reply. Not embarrassed – she did quite like being in the limelight after all – but because it was Salomé who had said it to her. As though she actually did care to listen. Maybe… no, Ron was definitely wrong. She wasn't truly a bitch through and through. Just most of the time.

All such thoughts, even of her own singing of which she secretly harboured such a passion for, fled from Ginny's thoughts when Salomé raised her wand. When she uttered the Mimicry Charm and with an accurate toss lobbed it onto her folded cardigan. When the gentle, lulling music arose, of a tinkling piano, wavering violin and whispering flute of some unknown tune wove into the air. It was fluid and gentle as a tumbling waterfall, like dandelion seeds blown into the wind. The joking smiles fell from Fred and George's faces, Hermione drew in a deep, wondering breath and Seamus and Dean paused in their half-hearted scuffling. Even Ron's eyes widened visibly as he stared at Salomé.

Ginny barely noticed any of that. She hardly saw any of them. Her own gaze was trained unblinkingly upon the dancer swaying slowly in the centre of the room. She could only stare as Salomé drew a graceful turn, drawing pointed toes across the floor behind her, around her, extending her arms and sweeping them with an extension like a swan raising its wings. She swayed as though the music were a gentle breeze and she a single flower perched on a hilltop, petals fluttering yet barely disturbed.

A twirl, another extension, a half-bow and she curled like that swan once more stretching its wings into the air in preparation for flight. And then Salomé flew.

There was no other word to describe what Ginny saw, except for perhaps magical. When the tendrils of glowing light wisped in thin tresses from Salomé's fingers, in pale blues and greens, soft whites and pastel mauves, she knew why Hermione had been so eager to see the wonders of a Praesulmagus. Why people called it an art.

The magic was a visible entity, a dance partner to Salomé's gentle turns, the sweep of her body and the reaching of her limbs. When she pointed a single leg before herself, a translucent hand of gossamer pink trickled down her thigh and along her calf, draping it like the curtaining fall of a dress. When Salomé spun in a pirouette, the ribbons twirled with her motion and blurred her image into a shimmering haziness, briefly cloaking her form but only enhancing the motion rather than smothering it. With a modified arabesque, a trio of faintly blue, green and white tendrils extended behind her and fluttered like a pair of wings, and when Salomé rose in a silent leap a moment later, those wings of magic flapped and held her aloft a moment longer than should have been possible before gently lowering her to the floor like a lover easing apart from a tender embrace.

Ginny could have watched for hours. She was unsure she had blinked for an instant since Salomé had started dancing, would have cursed herself if she had for missing a second of it. After a final leap that released a flurry of fluttering magical figures from beneath her wings, Salomé slowed into stillness with the fading music. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, it was with an expression of utter serenity upon her face that Ginny had never seen before.

Silence reigned for a moment. It captured them all and echoed with their awe. Until, "I think that Salomé is an entirely appropriate name for you," Hermione breathed. Ginny didn't know exactly what she meant by that, but nodded her head in fervent agreement. The sentiment was entirely perceivable. Entirely understandable. And Ginny couldn't leap to that agreement faster.

"Merlin," Ron muttered, shaking his head. Even he had lost his usual faint traces of wariness after the performance.

"You definitely can't dance," Dean said to Seamus, who only nodded his head fervently in agreement. Neville shook his own at Ginny's side, wrapping a hand around her waist with a murmured, "Ever considered trying to learn Synchrynomancy? 'Cause I think I might give it a go." Ginny found herself nodding once more.

Cedric didn't say anything, but the expression upon his face as Salomé turned towards him, that unreadable cast to her face resettling once more, was very telling. It wasn't quite pride, and it wasn't quite the mindless adoration that Ginny saw hints of on Fred and George's faces, had seen a glimmer of from Cedric in days prior. But there was definitely something else there, something…

"You'd make som' serious money if you'ever started a show. 'Nd I'd make a – a _very_ good agent," George blurted out more intelligibly then he'd voiced anything in the last hour. And Ginny slapped her hand to her forehead as the mood was abruptly shattered and everyone groaned.

"Seriously?"

"George, you're an idiot."

"Spoil the moment, why don't you?"

"Spoiled! Spoiled! Although you do have a point." That last from Fred, naturally.

Salomé didn't seem disgruntled by his words. A smile actually touched her lips and gradually spread, which only seemed to add fuel to the flame of George's sense of entitlement from the cocky expression he adopted. "Ah, but it would hardly be a performance without some accompaniment. What say you, shall we scout for some talent?"

"Oh, me!" Seamus burst out, apparently forgetting his words of moments before at his complete lack of dancing skill. Dean only rolled his eyes with a smile as his boyfriend tumbled to the floor in his dismount from the bed.

Fred rose to his feet too, followed by a wobbly George. "I'm a fair hand at dancing, if I do say so myself. More of the clubbing kind, I might add, but I've had my fair share of compliments."

"Bollocks," Ron exclaimed, similarly rising to his feet though Ginny doubted it was with any eagerness to partake himself. "You can't dance for shit."

"Watch and learn, little brother, watch and learn."

Ginny shook her head at the banter that ensued. Her attention was diverted a moment later when, at a nudge from Salomé, her wand chimed out an entirely different song. A _very_ different song, riddled with vocals and a heavy beat this time, and abruptly Fred's offer to demonstrate his dancing expertise was not quite so unwarranted. Turning to the room at large, raising an eyebrow at Cedric as he rose to his feet and muttered something inaudible in her ear, Salomé extended her hands palm up. It took a moment for Ginny to realise that she held one out to Hermione and the other to herself in invitation. "Ladies, if you would. Female empowerment can surely arise through music, naturally, and you are as such both prime participants."

"Oh no, I can't –" Hermione began, except then she did. Because Fred had started jumping in the rhythm of the music and George stumbled across the room to tug her to her feet and spin her in a twirl that was entirely irrelevant to the beat of the song. Ron plunged in a moment later alongside Seamus who, as it turned out, wasn't half as bad as Ginny had expected. Dean followed on his tail.

Then Salomé was at Ginny's side, tugging at her arm with a gentle but demanding pull that forbade declining. And Ginny was on her feet too, Neville right behind her as they fell into what suddenly seemed like far more than ten people all shaking themselves to the words of what appeared to be some sort of Muggle song.

Ginny abruptly found herself dancing almost against her will. It was infectious, almost like any club atmosphere with the sheer, mounting adrenaline of communal dancers thrumming through the air. But more than that, it was the presence of Salomé directly at her side who, Ginny realised, could certainly, most _definitely_ dance however she wanted, from the smooth, fluid lines of a ballerina to the undulations and tossing rhythms on a clubber. She almost entirely forgot about Neville rapidly losing his awkwardness to the music at her side, barely heard Hermione's laughter from across the room or _thump-thump-thump_ of the music in time with the creaks of abused timber floors beneath their feet. She saw only the whip of Salomé's hair as she tossed her head, felt the tug of fingers that urged her body into motion, the brief press of Salomé's hip alongside her own as she swung with the music, leapt to singer's command voice.

Ginny saw Salomé's eyes. She saw Harry's eyes, their impossible green almost lambent and drawing towards her in a hypnotic gaze that left Ginny floundering and her body simply moving for her. Harry's eyes had always enchanted Ginny, and Salomé's were no different. She lost herself, if only briefly. She lost herself in a dipping memory of an infatuation long past and an idol re-found.

For an idol Salomé certainly that. Enchanting and intoxicating. And, surprisingly, despite it all and entirely ethereally, she was… human.

* * *

With gentle strokes of his fingers, Cedric caressed the piano keys, impressing them barely enough for the gentle thrums of music to ripple forth. It was a quiet melody, an old one that his mother had once taught him. She'd hummed the tune to him every night for years in his childhood because he loved it so much. _"My Dear Fae_ " it was called, and whenever Cedric heard the soothing lilt it was almost like a lullaby. Even playing the melody himself left him with the urge to close his eyes and sink into a doze.

Cedric had been playing the piano for nearly half an hour, he estimated. After the dancing, of which to his surprise he had slowly been drawn into – Cedric had never been one to lose himself to abandon, but the atmosphere that had blanketed the room had demanded it – he'd found himself sitting upon the piano stool and the progression had been natural. Ginny had murmured from where she curled in her seat on the opposite side of the room that Cedric was putting them all to sleep, which was true, though Cedric didn't think that it was the sole cause for the general sleepiness that replaced the jumping music of hours before. At four o'clock in the morning, most sane people would be asleep.

And most of them were. Ginny was wedged beside Neville in a cat-like curl on their chairs, the twins similarly side by side in their assumed beds and slumping against one another's shoulders with the ease of those who had done so every night for their entire lives. Seamus and Dean were sprawled atop one another on their bed, their combined snores adding a discordant punctuation to Cedric's playing while Ron was stretched out upon the floor, his head propped on a pillow that Hermione had managed to wedge beneath it and a blanket draped over his shoulders. Hermione herself was lazing in her chair with knees hooked over the arm, her chin and eyes half-closed. Not asleep though, which was surprising, as she had been the one to drift off earlier that night. Instead, her eyes were fastened on Salomé, the only one who still looked more than half awake, as she swayed in the centre of the room.

Salomé was like a willow beneath a wind, barely moving but bowing to the current of the music in a fluid immobility that drew the eyes. Her eyes were closed, her head slightly tilted as though to assist the translation of sound. She'd been dancing just so since Cedric had started playing; he knew because, from his periphery, he'd watched her. He couldn't look away.

It wasn't so much because of her dancing itself. Or at least not only because of her dancing. Cedric had long admired Salomé's very warranted status as a Praesulmagus in the way that any artistry was admired. Cedric considered himself a competent enough at dancing – he'd been taking intermittent lessons since he was a child as part of his pureblood upbringing – but he would readily admit that in the few opportunities he'd had to dance with Salomé he'd felt very much the bumbling fool tripping over his own feet. She seemed to live for dancing, to breathe it.

But it wasn't even so much because of her dancing that Cedric couldn't look away, however. It was the expression that played across her face when she fully lost herself in her movements, when she drifted from the world. Salomé always wore a mask, a carefully fitted visage of coolness that rarely thawed to lukewarm, a hardness to her eyes that wasn't softened by the delightful and increasingly frequent bouts of amusement, and a smoothness to her features that didn't split under a smile, a raised eyebrow or starts of surprise. That was simply Salomé. It was who she was, a person who didn't reveal the face beneath the façade. Ever.

Except when she danced. Perhaps that was why it was so captivating, or at least part of the reason.

Cedric played as much to maintain that blissful detachedness upon Salomé's face as because his fingers, when started, seemed disinclined to stop. It had been a good idea, he reflected, to urge Salomé into her dancing. A good idea that Salomé had, surprisingly, acknowledged as being such within moments of its arousal. She hadn't even appeared overly disgruntled when Cedric had spoken for her, when he had answered Hermione's questions and thence urged Salomé to give the demonstration that he was as eager to witness as the rest of those in the room, albeit in a less demonstrative way.

The almost soft warmth, something that had appeared only on several occasions in the entire time Cedric had known Salomé, had blossomed upon her face when she turned to him after her brief show of Praesulmancy. It was an almost-warmth so rarely witnessed, though had almost arisen on increasing occasions over the past week, that Cedric found himself cherishing the moment like a precious jewel.

Salomé was like that. To Cedric, every little thing she did was just a bit special. He'd rapidly come to the realisation of that much in the past week, after the abrupt and upended state of their situation. Instead of the usual rounds they made alongside Riddle through meetings and dos, Cedric and Salomé had instead locked themselves into the study of anything that could assist them in what was surely an upcoming battle. A war on the Wizarding front. For Riddle wouldn't leave the Order, wouldn't leave Salomé, alive as a threat after what had happened. Not after the destruction of his Horcruxes. They had to ready themselves, and their dual commitment to that cause made itself known every night when Cedric fell into bed with his mind abuzz with spells, curses and counter-curses.

Yet as overwhelming – and admittedly unnerving, discomforting and, at times, downright terrifying – as their situation was, with the threat of imminent death hanging over their communal heads, Cedric cherished those hours in the library. It was a chance for him to get to know Salomé in an entirely different way, on an entirely different level, to that which he'd previously been afforded. That chance was not quite inhibited by the presence of Sirius, of Remus and Hermione and the Weasley's should they choose to join them in their study. Even so, Cedric found that in that brief hour or so in the morning when it was just the two of them…

He cherished those moments the most, for Cedric was afforded the opportunity to see Salomé. The Salomé beneath the mask, both that she had worn for Riddle and his subordinates and the one she presented to the rest of the household of Order members. She assumed that mask still to a degree, even for her old friends, even for Sirius. It wasn't obvious, Cedric supposed, for none but he seemed to see it. To many, it might even appear to be that she was simply shedding the persona she'd worn for Riddle and revealing the kinder, softer, often teasing and just slightly aloof and mocking self that was buried beneath.

Cedric knew otherwise. He could see it, as well as he saw that she shed the visage that Riddle had forced upon her. She was making an unexpected yet distinct effort with her old friends, with the adopted family she had once been a part of. A concerted effort, and it was evidently taxing in ways that Hermione and Ginny, that Ron and the rest of the Weasleys and even Sirius and Remus, didn't appear to realise. They were oblivious, and mostly because when they looked at Salomé, they each, every one of them though to varying degrees, expected to see Harry.

Even when Harry was no longer there.

It was a reality that Cedric had rapidly come to realise as he'd become Salomé's bodyguard. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Had Lived, the boy who had sacrificed himself for Cedric all those years ago, was gone. A mere memory with barely an echo remained in the girl that existed in his place. Salomé was different, was _so_ different in her manner, her mindset, her interactions. Cedric had barely known Harry but he had constructed a well-rounded representation of him from the stories that he'd acquired from his friends. He knew enough to know that Salomé was someone entirely other.

Perhaps it should have had a bigger impact upon him than it did. On some level, some distant, disregarded floor of his mind wedged behind back doors and forgotten walls, Cedric knew that. He had been undyingly loyal to the memory of a lost boy for years, and yet in the blink of an eye had shifted that loyalty to someone else entirely. Cedric had enough presence of mind, was rational enough and logical enough, to realise that there was something wrong with that. He shouldn't have shifted his loyalty so quickly; it was so very _i_ rrational, the opposite of everything Cedric stood for, that he was sure that had someone speculated he would act in such a way months before he would have frowned, shaken his head and calmly and practically explained every reason why that _would not happen_.

Except it had, and Cedric didn't regret it for a moment. Because there was something there, something that had grown from a small flicker of that transferred loyalty like a spark that leapt from a dying flame to a nearby stack of dry tinder. A spark that rapidly grew into a roaring flame, unrestricted and unrestrained, impossible to suppress.

That spark wasn't just loyalty. It was something else. Something that had grown with every moment that Cedric spent in Salomé's presence, whether it was beneath her disdainful stare, as the subject of a sceptically raised eyebrow or of the roll of her eyes at his perceived incompetence. And at times, at increasingly frequent times, when she smiled. When she smiled solely at Cedric in a way that was devoid of mockery or jest.

He'd never felt as such for anyone before. Never. Though that rational part of his mind, the part that sorted through jumbled emotions and laid them bared starkly upon the table before him, unveiled exactly what it was. It had only been revealed, had only become apparent to Cedric, not a week prior. Exactly when he stared fearfully upon the exhausted and shattered girl he'd carried in desperately clutching arms as he fled to Grimmauld Place.

Exactly when he realised just how much it would hurt him to loose her. 'Hurt' wasn't a big enough word for it. How was it possible for such a feeling to arise so quickly?

In the days following, the wee hour of the morning when it was just Cedric and Salomé in Sirius' library, pouring over books and parchments and silent more often than speaking, that feeling and Cedric's understanding for it only grew. It manifested and redoubled each time Salomé lifted her gaze to meet his and he saw it free of that careful guardedness she wore like a familiar coat, when she chided him for not knowing a "very common counter-curse, how have you not heard of it?" When she folded herself into the chair beside him to peer over his shoulder at something he'd pointed out and remained there for the rest of the morning despite having the rest of her books spread around the seat on the opposite side of the table. And when, as Cedric pointed out something in particular, made a thoughtful comment or voiced his ponderings aloud, Salomé blinked up at him in surprise that shifted into something more than simply approval. Respect? Maybe.

It wasn't what he saw others felt. It was something different entirely that he couldn't exactly name. And it was the same feeling that arose whenever Cedric watched Salomé dance.

Closing his eyes, Cedric played the final notes of his mother's lullaby and slowed his hands to a stop. He wanted to play more, if only so that Salomé could keep dancing, but the weight of tiredness was settling upon him. Not only did Salomé appear soothed by his playing, but Cedric was himself. He had always found it an outlet of sorts, though he hadn't played in years. The songs still hung in his memory, however, his fingers still moving to their assigned keys with the unerring surety of muscle memory. He was soothed. Calmed. Eased. Perhaps he should play more often.

A touch to his shoulder drew Cedric from his thoughts. Blinking his eyes open, he half turned to glance over his shoulder, to meet Salomé's gaze where she stood just behind him.

Contrary to her usual slip back into blank composure, Salomé's expression bore much of the relaxed openness that it did when she lost herself in dancing. Maybe it was simply that she too was feeling the effects of the night, even if the grogginess of alcohol had long since worn off. She met Cedric's stare with soft, slowly blinking eyes and a small smile upon her lips.

Then, barely loud enough to be heard, she murmured, "Thank you." A moment later, without ceremony and to only the half-attending audience of Hermione as she followed her progress across the room, Salomé slipped through the door into the hallway and disappeared.

Cedric watched her go, stared in her absence for a moment. He didn't know what she was thanking him for. It could have been something as simple as playing the melody, or something vastly more significant of which Cedric couldn't fathom. Salomé was as likely to use the gentle enunciation for one instance as the other. It hardly mattered, however, for anything that could make Salomé grateful was worth doing. No matter how great or small.

Rising from the piano seat, Cedric too took himself towards the door. Nodding goodnight to Hermione, who offered a weary, barely conscious smile in return, he slipped through the door and headed through the dark, creaking halls of Grimmauld Place up to the bedroom alongside Salomé's. The one that Sirius had given him when he finally acknowledged the protectiveness that Cedric had acquired from his bodyguard role – or _apparently_ acquired then, though Cedric knew that it had little to do with that role itself _._ Cedric was no longer Salomé's bodyguard by any degree, but that didn't mean his fierce protectiveness didn't remain. Even in the relative safety of Sirius' own home. Even if Salomé didn't need it and had never truly needed it.

He fell into his bed with a sigh, mind already turning towards the next day. Though Cedric had agreed to Remus' suggestion that they take a break that night from the compulsive studying had been warranted, and he believed it had indeed helped, he was not looking forward to the following morning and the hours spent with his nose in a book as he attempted to keep his eyes pried open. They needed to research but weariness wasn't conducive to such.

The only balm to ease Cedric's regret was that Salomé would be at his side.


	14. Burn With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I could make up excuses and give reasons as to why it's late, but you probably don't want to hear them. Sorry again that this is a bit of a short chapter, but I hope you enjoy it anyway :)

** Chapter 14: Burn With Me **

Scowling down at the text before her, illuminated by her wand's wavering, Salomé shook her head. Theoretical practitioners always induced condescension in her; they seemed intent upon making wild speculations, outlining extensive practices that would result in an epiphany of discovery, and yet never seemed particularly inclined to test those theories for themselves. Orzac Nero was no different, frustratingly enough, and the theorist's claims as to the appropriate counter-curses to Unforgivable Curses of all things were entirely theoretical in nature.

Salomé would like to see _him_ offer himself up to the bat as a test subject.

With a sigh she pushed the heavy, dusty book away from herself. It was early, in the wee hours of the morning, yet Salomé had been buried in her search for knowledge for over an hour already. Where candlelight was insufficient, she used her wand to better read the fine, printed words. It was a strain, was slow going, but she persisted nonetheless. Despite the tiredness that weighed upon her, she couldn't sleep.

In the last few days Salomé had grown increasingly aware that their situation, the upcoming fight against Riddle, was looking grim. That not only would she be outnumbered, even should she acknowledge the forces of the Order standing behind her, but the sheer weight of experience that Riddle held over her would further widen the discrepancy between them. Such pondering led to nights of broken sleep and long hours lying awake in frustration, building potential scenarios of how it could play out and what she could do to counteract what would otherwise be a massacre. Too many nights curled awake in bed, frowning unblinkingly into the darkness, had led Salomé to the conclusion that her time would be better spent in the Black Archives.

At least she wasn't alone, she considered, glancing up briefly to Cedric beside her as she drew another dusty, dog-eared book from the endless pile at her side. Cedric had been with her the entire time, with the exception of a week ago when her night-reading had begun. In the hour after their 'party', Salomé had been left staring at the spider web of cracks in the ceiling and contemplating once more. It had been the first time she'd abandoned her bed to seclude herself in the library, when desperation had demanded action. Cedric hadn't commented when he found her there the next morning. He hadn't said anything about the matter at all, but the next morning, before dawn when Salomé had taken herself down to the Archives once more after barely a handful of hours of sleep, Cedric had joined her. Without comment, too, except when Salomé had spoken first.

"You should be in bed."

"So should you." Cedric had replied with a shrug. "It's not like I'm sleeping all that much anyway. At least this way I'm being productive." And that had been the end of it. Salomé could hardly dispute his inclinations, not when it arose from the same inclination as her own. Besides, they'd developed a system of working together – in silence but for exchanges of useful facts or opinions that were more easily transferrable through words rather than their compiled list in the middle of the table.

A list, Salomé noted as she realised her attention had drifted from her book once more, that was growing exceedingly long. What with the assistance of Sirius and Remus, of Hermione and Bill and Charlie, at times Arthur and Molly, Fleur and the twins, and even Ginny with Ron and Neville in tow on the occasion, they were churning through the dark volumes of curses and counter-curses, defensive spells and enchantments and potions that could be taken that developed resistance to particular magic. The entire household of Grimmauld Place had taken to the building of a repertoire like a drowning man clutching for a lifeline. Salomé only hoped their efforts would be worth something, that there could be something they could use.

"Are you alright? If you're tired, you should take yourself to bed. I'll keep reading."

Glancing at Cedric sidelong, Salomé frowned. "Tired?"

Cedric, his own gaze drawn from the thin book before him, pages illuminated by white _Lumos_ and candlelight, nodded. "You've been staring at the list for a good ten minutes now. Maybe it would be a good idea to take a break."

Salomé was shaking her head even before Cedric finished, anticipating his words. She didn't even feel any particular irritation towards him for his overprotective suggestions anymore, but instead was growing to accept them as the genuine concern that they were. Not coddling, but simple concern. Cedric was just like that, she had come to realise. And had come to accept, not without significant initial disgruntlement but evolving into contemplative recognition. "No. No, I'm fine." She dropped her gaze down to the book before her once more, scowling at the pompous tone of some philosopher or other as she preached her superior experience in working with Abrasion Curses without ever being in a real fight herself. The fool.

From her periphery, Salomé was aware of Cedric's gaze still fixed upon her. He pressed his lips together slightly before opening his mouth to speak, the inhalation of breath loud in the otherwise quiet room. But before he could speak, a jarring rumble of the house seemed to shake the very walls of the room.

Salomé didn't think – she simply reacted. Jumping to standing, her wand slipping into her ready grasp and snatching her glasses from her nose, her feet planted themselves in a grounded stance. The Detection Charms she kept permanently draped around herself these days – because of course she would take precautions – directed her gaze towards a point on the trembling wall that stood before the intruder to the house. Definitely an intruder, for the house, Salomé had come to understand, always responded in such a way. Her wand snapped up the shoulder height before the thought registered that Grimmauld Place was protected by a Fidelius Charm and no one that shouldn't walk through the front doors could.

At her side, Cedric was barely a split second slower to respond.

Before either of them could move, however, could spring into offensive defence, Moody's guttural voice barked through the house. "Remus! Sirius! Get down here, now! Arthur, Molly, _now!_ " The stomp of his footsteps, of a boot and then his wooden mimic, clattered down the hallway like a herd of stampeding hippogriffs. Salomé and Cedric exchanged a glance before both darting around the table towards the Archives' door.

The darkness of the hallway was illuminated by Moody's sudden _Lumos Maxima,_ blinding in the pre-dawn gloom. Salomé slammed to a stop in the doorway, Cedric nearly crashing into her, and slowly, slowly dropped her wand to her side. Moody hadn't noticed them yet, his hulking, Igor-like form stomping in impatient steps back and forth before the stairwell, limp more profound with the speed of his step. Grumbles ensued unintelligibly, and he glared through both eyes, dark peering at the floor before his feet and magical whizzing in a sickening spin.

"Remus! Sirius! Now!"

Reasserting her composure, denying the adrenaline that had been sparked by Moody's explosive arrival, Salomé folded her arms. Lifting her chin and schooling her features, she made her steps deliberately loud as she approached Moody. For his part, Moody's eyes, both magical and non-magical, spun towards her. He half-turned with a snarl curling upon his lip.

Before the grizzled Auror could even open his mouth, Salomé spoke in a demand. "What happened?"

It wasn't a question of what Moody's problem was and why he was so crazed. Anyone could see that something was wrong, and when it came to Moody there was very little that he couldn't set to rights through sheer domination or force of will. The 'wrong' that he was evidently plagued with was likely – very likely – related to one cause only. A cause that Moody seemed resolutely set upon denying to Salomé. "It's not your concern."

"On the contrary, Moody, it is the concern of everyone in the Order if an issue pertaining to Riddle arises," Cedric said as he stepped up to Salomé's side, and she didn't need to glance towards him to know that he had assumed a similarly stubborn stance to her own.

Moody growled, turning fully to face the pair of them. "That is why I'm telling the _Order_. You –"

"Are as good as," Cedric interrupted him. The tension in his pose was almost trembling for it's rigidity, almost affronted and so disregarding of Moody's perceived superiority that Salomé had to bite back a smirk. "Salomé is most definitely an honorary member, and I've been a part of the Order for years now."

"Honorary member?" Moody spat, completely ignoring Cedric's claim as to his own status. "You're blindsided, Diggory. It has not been agreed upon in even the faintest sense –"

"Not agreed upon by you, maybe," Cedric interrupted once more. His voice was chilling. "Everyone at Grimmauld Place seemed able to do so, and word from McGonagall is that she and the majority of the ex-Hogwarts professors involved in the Order feel similarly. To here tell of it, Dumbledore is of a similar mind."

Moody growled once more. He looked fierce enough to chew through steel, his teeth already grinding to as though in preparation to do so. He opened his mouth to speak, to retort in something that would definitely have been anger, but Salomé quickly jumped in before him.

"That is neither here nor there at the present. We can discuss this later, at a less time-poor moment." She narrowed her gaze as she trained it upon Moody, daring him to continue with his dispute further. "What. Happened?"

For a moment, it seemed that Moody wouldn't heed Salomé's demand. That his own prejudice would get in the way of considering the situation at hand. Salomé had long ago come to accept that there were some – perhaps many – in the Order who would be unable to see past her supposedly treasonous past. Many who still and likely always would label her as a Dark witch, something that she wasn't entirely ready to dispute. That even after her involvement in the destruction of the Horcruxes she would forever be perceived as a dubious character.

It didn't matter to Salomé. She didn't care if she was hated, if she was trusted, if anyone cared for her wellbeing enough to bother to assist her in the encroaching fight against Riddle. She'd made an effort towards civility for the past weeks with those who had been her old friends, but an effort was all she would attempt. Salomé was not a kind person to go above and beyond for others, she knew. Nor was she adept at demonstrations of affection, or fondness, or even any particular neutrality. She couldn't say exactly why she had wanted to try so hard with the people who had been so close to her in her past except for… perhaps some revival of the nostalgia she'd experienced on numerous occasions? Some surprising and, she perceived, largely irrational guilt for the complete deterioration of the boy they'd once known?

Salomé didn't know. She didn't care to consider it either, for when she did it always amounted to nothing but confusion and frustration and miscomprehension. Salomé hated being left in the dark, hated not knowing, and even more so for a situation so personal and removed from the careful professionalism that Salomé approached any social context. But she'd acted upon that unconscious urge, however incomprehensible, and simply tried to be… nice.

When it came to Moody, however, Salomé felt no such inclination. She didn't know the man. She didn't care for him, not past his usefulness in the war. The only experience she'd had with him had been with a false imposter from her fourth year of school, and even those memories weren't particularly favourable. Especially considering that said imposter was the very reason she'd been turned over to Riddle's 'care' in the first place. The sight of Moody always elicited memories of Bartemius Crouch Jr., even years after he'd been killed for his own presumptuous foolishness. At the hand of Riddle himself, no less.

No, Salomé didn't care for Moody. So she felt no qualms about settling upon him an unblinking, demanding stare and entirely disregarding the evident discomfort that arose as a result as he struggled to decide whether answering her would be a breach of his self-imposed protocol. Finally, as though slogging through thick mud, Moody made his decision. An unfavourable decision at that, if his expression was any indication.

"One of our safe houses have been attacked," he ground out, teeth gritted and anger thick in his voice. "It was a shit-fire battle, three dead and another seven captured. Held hostage, as far as we can tell. None of their bodies have been found yet."

Cedric stiffened at Salomé's side. Salomé didn't need to turn towards him to know that his gaze became a murderous glare, that his jaw tightened and his lips thinned. She felt him fold his arms across his chest and knew that he would be holding them so tightly as to nearly split the seams in his jumper. Angry? No, Cedric wasn't angry. He was furious. Salomé could feel it, like a physical heat radiating from him. Never having felt as much before, she had to wonder briefly as to how she knew that.

For her part, Salomé wasn't angry. She wasn't distressed at the thought of three Order members dead, or even particularly concerned for the capture of seven others. She'd seen far worse than simple killings, and her only sympathy lay in that the 'hostages' as Moody had called them would most likely be subjected to torture to drain every last iota of intelligence from them before driving them into insanity. Salomé had seen it before, had been subject to many such torture for months herself; perhaps that was why her sympathy – her empathy – was so muted? She knew the torture they would face and knew that they would have to either be strong enough to face it, to accept that it was happening and let it happen without resistance, or fight it and lose their minds. For some reason, she felt a touch of hope that they would simply give in. It was certainly easier that way.

"Who were they?" Cedric asked. His voice was low and deep, but there was no hiding the barely concealed the rage bubbling beneath that quietness.

Moody shifted his attention from where it had been trained upon Salomé to Cedric instead. When he spoke his voice was less of a growl and more of a droning monotone. Somehow, that made the emotion, the regret underlying his words, more profound. "Diggle, Ponting and Boot are all dead. Killing Curse, looks like. There bodies were left in the foyer of the estate, lined up like they were left there intentionally. Couldn't miss them."

"A message," Salomé murmured, nodding.

Moody ignored her. "The hostages are mostly younger generation. They hit the safe house that had the most underage witches and wizards affiliated with the Order as though it was intentional. As though they knew."

"Do you know who?" Cedric asked.

Moody snorted. "Of course we know. We know where everyone is at all times." He paused and the sigh her emitted was more of a growl. "Three seventeen year olds – Goop, Lovegood and Farring – two sixteen – Bardell and Mongoose – and one fifteen – Skimfree." He shook his head, and Salomé had to acknowledge the genuine regret in that sharp gesture; he did seem actually saddened by the thought. "Should have had better protection."

"And the seventh?" Cedric asked, ploughing through Moody's contemplation. The sound of scuffles from upstairs, the distant thud of footsteps, suggested that the sleepers on the upper stories had finally awoken, drawn by Moody's shouts. Salomé didn't glance overhead to the stairwell and the above landing to check.

Moody's lips thinned to a hard line. "Mundungus Fletcher."

Cedric released a sharp breath in a humourless huff of laughter. Salomé glanced at him sidelong, raising an eyebrow. She knew _of_ the man but could hardly claim to know who Fletcher was at all.

At her glance, Cedric turned towards her. "Dung is… basically, if he's a hostage, Riddle's bound to scrape every last piece of knowledge from him that exists. He's not exactly –"

"Mundungus is a coward," Moody spat in another sudden burst of anger and aggression. His eyes narrowed in a glare, but for once it wasn't directed at Salomé. "He'll sell out each and every one of those kids if he thinks it would save his skin even a little bit. Turn traitor, he would."

"Remind me again why some people in particular are acknowledged as worthy of the Order's recognition while others are not," Cedric said, his tone biting and very pointed. Salomé suppressed the urge to smirk once more.

"We need to get those kids out of there," Moody continued, ignoring Cedric's words entirely. "Snape's already scouting to try and see what intel he can gather, but we'll have to act even without direct knowledge if he can't get anything to us quickly enough. More than that, we need to relocate; if Mundungus spills all – or if any of the kids spill – that puts us all at risk." His clipped words suggested he resented the weakness in the child-hostages, even if he was saddened by their capture, even if he could understand it. _If_ he could, which Salomé wasn't entirely sure he was capable of.

She barely considered Moody's standpoint, however, for her mind had leapt at his words. At the opportunity that was presented. If ever there was a sign it was now. Pressing her lips together to withhold the urge to demand action immediately, she tightened her hold on her wand wedged in the crook of her elbow. It was the only thing keeping her from erupting out in savage delight. "I know where they would be, if Riddle holds them directly."

Moody's and Cedric's attention snapped towards her sharply. Moody frowned. " _You_ do?"

"Of course," Salomé said. "I am somewhat intimately familiar with the dungeons of Riddle Manor." She ignored for the moment that Cedric seemed to grow even tenser at her side. It was as though her words physically provoked him, which, considering it was Cedric, they probably did. She tried not to let the contrasting and confusing mixture of irritation and flooding warmth make itself apparent on her expression, in her tone, as she continued. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe this to be a rather perfect opportunity. Wouldn't you agree, Moody?"

Moody's expression, dark as it always was when Salomé spoke even in the light of his own _Lumos_ , became momentarily uncertain. Distrust and aversion was still pronounced on his features, yet there was contemplation there too. Before he could reply, however, Grimmauld Place announced in its trembling objection the arrival of another intruder. The grumbles of the walls were reflected in the splutters of ridicule and discontent from their audience several floors overhead. With a glance upwards towards the cavity and bannisters hanging above her, Salomé could make out the dim splodges of pale faces peering down from on high. Her attention snapped back towards the front door, however, as Dumbledore's tall figure stepped through.

Even in the dimness of the morning shadows, the elderly wizard would always make a grand sight. Tall, and imposing in that tallness when not smiling benignly, his draping purple robes glistened with a satiny sheen in Moody's conjured light, his half-moon spectacles reflecting the _Lumos_ in a cascade of dancing orbs and his long, white beard regal even when tucked into his belt. Salomé could not profess that she liked the man – not in the slightest, even after the years he had been a fondly considered headmaster. His passivity in the political war, the fact that he had effectively disappeared from the face of the earth to protect himself, was nothing if not infuriating. He'd disappeared, and yet always seemed to reappear when the moment suited him rather than rising to the assistance of those around him. Such as now.

No, affection was not something that Salomé could even attempt in a semblance when considering the old wizard.

There was little enough affection in Dumbledore's own gaze as he strode down the hallway to the utter silence of the entire house. The last groans of Grimmauld Place silenced as he stopped beside Moody, eyes resting upon Salomé. There was sadness there, as though he was regretful for the woman Salomé had become. Wariness, too, though not as aggressive as Moody's, and contemplative in a far less dismissive fashion than the gnarled Order member at his side. He dropped his chin slightly, peering over the rims of his spectacles, and affixed Salomé with an unwavering stare. "Is this true?"

Salomé arched an eyebrow. Though she might acknowledge his competency for what little he _had_ done with the Order and in sheltering the Muggleborns from Riddle's wrath when Salomé could not, she was certainly not cowed by him. Not in the least. And though he stood head and shoulders taller than she, towering though not quite looming, she was not intimidated. Salomé didn't get intimidated by anyone. "Which part?"

"You know where the hostages would be held?"

Staring for a moment longer, Salomé inclined her head. "I could hazard an accurate guess."

"Could we even trust her words?" Moody asked in a grumble, glancing up at Dumbledore with a mixture of wariness and something akin to desperation. It was as though in this instance at least he sorely wanted to believe Salomé capable.

Slowly, Dumbledore nodded his head. "I believe that, in this instance, Miss Belaire can be trusted."

"Your confidence if heart-warming," Salomé said, her eyebrow rising further. "Does that extend to my suggestion?"

"That we engage in battle?" Dumbledore asked. The hands folded at his waist twitched slightly as though longing to tighten into fists for a moment.

A mirthless smile touched Salomé's lips. "The battle has already been started, Professor. Years ago, as I'm sure you recall, though you may not have noticed." She shook her head. "No, I suggest we simply take the battle to Riddle's quarters for once. I believe his reign of terror has ensued for long enough. Your passivity is getting you nowhere."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Moody was silent. All of them, Cedric, Sirius, Remus, Hermione and the Weasley's and Neville up above – none of them spoke a word. None even seemed to breathe. Finally, after moments of static silence, Dumbledore narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Seven Horcruxes have been destroyed. Due to the instability of Voldemort's soul, it would be reasonable to assume that any attempts to produce more would result in failure on his part." Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully for a moment. "Should we engage in this battle, should we ride forth with wands raised and the intent to fight, it would be the penultimate fight." His eyes narrowed further, trained intently upon Salomé. "The Order could trust you to support such an endeavour? To offer your assistance?"

Salomé's smile spread further across her lips. She knew what it was, that it would be considered deadly by many and terrifying to most. To her, it was a smile of satisfaction, of triumph, of potential victory upon the horizon. "Believe me, Professor Dumbledore, I have never been more committed to a cause in my entire life. I long for nothing more than to destroy that self-serving, gutless son of a bitch."

There was silence for a moment, stunned silence, at Salomé's words or perhaps the vehemence of her tone. Then, overhead and in a muffled snort, Sirius laughed.

Ron's voice was interspersed with those of the twins in an abrupt riot of nervous excitement.

Remus' words were drowned out by an outburst of questioning that sounded like it came from Ginny.

Dumbledore and Moody stared at Salomé unblinkingly for a moment. Then, with a glance towards one another, they both slowly inclined their heads in synchronous nods.

Salomé felt a rush of that triumph flood through her once more. Finally. Finally she would get to act. She would be able to put all of her hitherto unused plans to the test, even if they would most likely be discarded in the heat of the moment. Whether to success or destruction, Salomé's war was finally approaching its climax.

She glanced towards Cedric to find herself already the subject of study. His expression was a hard mixture to discern, riddled with too many emotions for Salomé to untangle. But there was one that she noted, that she would recognise without even having to spare him a sidelong glance: Cedric, more than anyone else, would be with her every step of the way.

* * *

Tying the last of her laces, Salomé rose from her seat on the end of her bed and stomped one foot then the other. With a Fitting Charm, the thick-soled boots were more than comfortable enough, and Salomé mentally thanked Ginny once more for the loan of her clothing. She'd long since learned how to dance in heels let alone run, but that hardly meant she didn't prefer something more practical. The same went for the comfortable, worn jeans, the t-shirt and thick jacket that she wore over the top. She may understand and appreciate the quality of elegant and tasteful dress-robes, of dresses and skirts and corsets and blouses that hugged her frame like a second skin, but preferable? Hardly. Even after so many years of wearing little else.

Shaking her head, Salomé scraped her hair into a high ponytail. How Riddle would have twitched in days gone by to see her outfitting herself in such a way. He hadn't known about her dressing habits for the brief trips of restricted freedom Salomé had made into the London Metropolitan in days gone by. It had been one of her few acts of rebellion. It was almost regretful that he _hadn't_ noticed.

With a small smile – for in her determined enthusiasm, Salomé seemed unable to shake such a display of good-humour from her face – she turned her attention to the holster lying like a limp serpent upon the bed. Her bed, as it had become over the weeks, as Sirius had assigned it. Just as he had assigned her that holster for her wand, for 'ease of movement' as he'd said, and to limit the possibility that she would lose her only weapon through the looseness of her back pocket. The sentiment, while largely irrelevant – for when would Salomé ever be foolish enough to put her wand in her back pocket? – was just slightly endearing. Even disregarding as she usually was of such displays of affection, Salomé could recognise that.

She had exchanged scant words with Dumbledore and Moody before the two older Order members had departed. The rest of the residents of Grimmauld Place had descended the stairs in seconds and added their own input to the mixture of planning and readying, voicing their own suggestions. They spoke of tactics, strategies, considerations and concerns, of how they should best approach the situation.

Salomé ignored it all. All she really needed was a distraction, someone or something to draw the attention of Riddle's subordinates from her while she went for the snake's head herself. She heard detachedly that her fellows speculated that Dumbledore had often expressed his intentions to similarly hunt down the source, but largely discarded such knowledge as irrelevant. It would be _Salomé_ who destroyed Riddle. She vowed it. She would assist with the retrieval of hostages to a degree, but Riddle was her primary objective.

At a noise over her shoulder, the distinctive sound of a latch snicking and a door swinging inwards, Salomé turned from fixing her hair. The instinctive assumption of her cool, blank mask, worn like a comfortable cloak, eased at the sight of Cedric stepping through the doorway. Eased almost to a smile, as it had done more frequently of late. Salomé had to catch herself from falling prey to something so foolish; she didn't know why she was acting in such a way, what drove her to respond to Cedric with less bite and more cordiality, to feel a faint blossom of warmth in her chest when he appeared as though he were a flickering flame of gentle heat. The feeling was one of affection, of fondness even, as though she _liked_ him.

Which she didn't. Salomé didn't like anyone. Ever.

"Are you ready to go?" Cedric asked. His voice was brisk, his tone clipped with a hint of urgency ans demand that Salomé wasn't familiar with when directed towards her. That realisation in itself explained the situation; evidently, that urgency, the barely suppressed frustration, wasn't directed towards _Salomé_.

Cedric had reason to be urgent, to be impatient and agitated. An hour had passed since Dumbledore and Moody had left, an hour since they, alongside Sirius, Remus and Bill Weasley, had Apparated to the safe houses scattered around the United Kingdom. To "gather forces", Moody had muttered as they swept out. To get everyone ready, and that "you should all be ready to leave upon a moment's notice when we return", as the grizzled old ex-Auror had grumbled.

An hour gone, and the murky grey of dawn had long since flooded through every window.

Frustrated? Yes, Salomé could understand frustration. She felt it too, even though, due the extensive discussion she had shared with those who remained at Grimmauld Place, she had only just finished readying herself. There were still the pre-prepared potions for them all to down, those that boosted endurance – both magical and physical – as well as those that neutralised various spells when they hit and reflected others. Hermione was reportedly getting those ready, organising them in the kitchen downstairs with a once-begrudging then very compliant Kreacher after Salomé had spoken a word of request to him.

What differed between she and Cedric, however, was their motivation; Salomé wanted to kill Riddle – that was her goal, first and foremost. Cedric put the rescue of the younger witches and wizards as first and foremost, something that Ginny in particular had been adamant about given that some were her classmates. Salomé felt for them, felt for their plight did on a deeper level, but as a priority? No. Salomé knew that to stem the shockwaves of disastrous effect, one had to first strike at the source of the problem.

Pausing to consider the holster before shrugging and outfitting herself, Salomé strapped it to her arm and fastened her wand. "I'm ready."

Cedric nodded, regarding her intently. It was a study that had become more and more extensive of late that Salomé had noticed, its intensity almost overwhelming his persisting impatience. It elicited that warm feeling within Salomé, the strange uncurling in her gut, as well as her own degree of frustration as to its unfamiliarity. She truly had no idea what it was and yet, in return, she regarded him back just as intently.

And she found herself caught.

There was something about Cedric in a state of coiled readiness that was entirely captivating. In a glance it could be overlooked, disregarded or barely noticed, but in a brief study Salomé _saw_. She saw it in the set of his stance, the tension in his shoulders beneath the leather jacket he'd borrowed from Charlie, the tightness of his jaw beneath a brush of stubble and the slight frown on his strong brow and intent gaze. There was something about the careless disregard for his appearance, the half-tuck of his trousers shoved into his boots, the mussing of his hair, that somehow elicited confidence in his competency rather than suggestion of slovenliness.

The smile that Salomé seemed unable to withhold disregarded her attempts entirely and unfurled upon her lips. If nothing else it served to ease the slight frown from Cedric's face, replacing it with confusion. "What?"

Salomé shook her head. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Is everyone else ready? Hermione has fiddled with the potions enough to her satisfaction?"

Cedric leant slightly against the doorframe, a crooked smile at odds with his ushakeable tension slipping onto his lips. "To her satisfaction? I seriously doubt that."

"She is something of a perfectionist," Salomé agreed. Casting a final glance around the room, even knowing that there would be nothing but her wand that she would realistically need, Salomé nodded to herself and stepped towards the door. Only to have Cedric fail to move from her path as he should have.

Turning her gaze up towards him, Salomé offered her customary arched eyebrow. "Something bothering you?"

Cedric's gaze was intent once more, his smile slowly fading from his lips. "Are you alright?"

Blinking, as surprised as she was affronted – did he always have to be so concerned? – Salomé frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Cedric shook his head, taking a deep breath. "This rescue mission, for it is a rescue mission, above all else… are you prepared?"

"I've never been more prepared for anything in my entire life," Salomé replied flatly.

"To fight Riddle?"

Salomé blinked. "To kill Riddle."

Cedric was silent for a moment. Silent and staring, and it was all Salomé could do not to shift beneath his attention. Salomé didn't get uncomfortable. She induced discomfort in others, not the other way around. But sometimes, the way that Cedric looked at her, as though he was reading her like a book, as though he could hear her thoughts… it was often disconcerting. A little humiliating, too. It was exposing, leaving Salomé with a sense of vulnerability that she had never experienced in such a way before. She'd been vulnerable more times that she could count in her entire life, and always against her will and intention, but this was different.

Mostly, it was different because with Cedric it didn't feel exactly wrong. That more than anything else was disconcerting. Salomé had never felt that with someone before, and had certainly never wanted nor needed it.

"He's powerful," Cedric continued, low and deep. His tone suggested an almost desperate desire to convey his feelings. It was a struggle not to simply accept them, accept anything. Salomé didn't exactly know how to in the first place, even if she felt as though, in recent weeks, she had grown better at acceptance. It was another thing that was disconcerting. "It will be difficult to defeat him, if it's even possible."

"To kill him," Salomé reiterated, nodding. "Yes, it will be."

"You could do better to accept support."

Salomé shook her head. "No. No, I won't. That would only –"

"Risk their injury?" Cedric suggested. The slight quirk to the corner of his mouth bespoke his understanding that such concern wasn't what Salomé was about to utter.

Narrowing her eyes, Salomé shook her head. "No," she said deliberately. "They will get in my way."

The barely-there touch of his smile slipped from Cedric's face into sombre tension once more. He still hadn't moved from Salomé's path, still blocking her way, and yet for some reason it wasn't as frustrating as it perhaps should have been. In anyone else, Salomé would have likely felt her agitation grow, the urge to thrust the impediment from her path physically or magically welling within her. But not for Cedric. She could only wonder once again why he was the exception.

Cedric was staring at Salomé with that same intensity that he turned upon her so often. His arms settled across his chest, not defensively or aggressively but simply resting. No one else could pull of such a stance quite so passively as Cedric. "You don't have to do it all by yourself, Salomé," he murmured.

Salomé shook her head slowly, lifting her chin. "That's what you don't understand, Cedric. It's not that I have to but that I want to."

"And you won't accept help from anyone else?"

"To kill Riddle?" She deliberately spoke those words once more, just to enforce them. Cedric wasn't the sort of person to favour death and destruction, but Salomé knew better. She knew that, in the case of Riddle, he would have to die. Brutally. Painfully. He had to pay. "He's taken enough from me, Cedric. It's time I take some of it back."

Something in Cedric's face shifted in that moment. Shifted and softened slightly into an expression that Salomé hadn't seen before. It wasn't pity – blessedly, for Salomé didn't want to strike Cedric but she would have done had she seem him afford her such. It wasn't even really sympathy either. It looked more like understanding, almost agreement. That in itself was unexpected. For all of their studies together, all of their researching, Cedric had never quite openly claimed that he would partake in any cold-blooded killing. He hadn't fully acknowledged it would happen, even with Salomé frequently declaring as much at his side, but…

"And so you should," he murmured, barely audibly. "It's your right. More than anyone else's, it's yours."

Salomé was silenced. She stared up at Cedric, at the softness on his face that wasn't pity, and blinked. That was surprising. She hadn't expected that at all. Reluctant agreement, perhaps, or hesitancy, or maybe even the opposite, a swift, decisive decision that corresponded with Salomé's. Not this. Not this thoughtful, careful, understanding steadiness.

How like Cedric. He was always throwing her for a loop.

Shaking herself from her momentary stupor, Salomé drew her gaze over his shoulder. She'd caught the peripheral glimpse of Sirius disappearing down the stairs with Remus and that Metamorphmagus that had arrived only moments before in tow. "Thank you," she said quietly. Perhaps for the first time in her life, or at least for the first time in years, she truly meant her gratitude with her entirety. Cedric understood, if only to a degree. He understood and, though it wasn't really his decision, he was offering her free reign. The warmth that had taken up a firm residence in Salomé's chest throbbed slightly.

She didn't expect Cedric's following response. She could never have anticipated him to act as he did then, wouldn't have expected anyone to dare. And in anyone else, she likely would have snapped to attention, raised a knee to the groin and stabbed her fist to the gut before drawing her wand and cursing them to the ground. It was a testament to how fully she accepted Cedric, on a level even Salomé herself didn't realise, that she did none of that.

In a single smooth motion, Cedric raised his arms and leaned across the bare distance between them. Without a word, he wrapped Salomé in an embrace, drawing her to him and curling around her in an almost protective fashion. Salomé was frozen, felt her eyes widen but could otherwise urge no response. She could only let it happen, could only blink in surprise that anyone would dare to try and touch her so affectionately. So protectively.

Cedric dared. He dared and he continued to dare, holding Salomé against him, breathing his warmth and sturdiness onto her. A gentle weight settled on Salomé's head that she recognised as Cedric's chin resting on her crown. It was incredibly intimate, incredibly strange, and absolutely foreign. No one had ever touched Salomé like that, so gently, almost encouragingly, yet firmly as if in support. Not even when she'd still had friends.

How was it possible that something so foreign, something so previously unexperienced, could feel so comfortable?

Salomé didn't know. She'd never even considered such a situation, never considered that anyone would ever hold such genuine compassion for her as what she could feel radiating from Cedric. It was strange, unnatural even, yet not at all aversive. To Salomé, people had always fallen into specific and easily defined categories: those she intimidated, those that were intimidated yet lusted for her nonetheless, those she disregarded, the sparse neutrals who were at times and yet only rarely of her cordial consideration, and Riddle. That was it.

And then there was Cedric. There were her old friends too, the people that she was only just recalling, only just easing her discomfort around, but foremost was Cedric. He was on a different spectrum entirely and for so long Salomé hadn't known what to make of him. She still didn't really, certainly not when he – when he _hugged_ her. All she knew was that something in her chest, something alongside that warmth that nestled there and grew just a little brighter, stung slightly. It was almost painful yet in a good way.

Salomé didn't know what to make of that either. It was all so confusing that for a moment, an unbelievable moment, she almost forgot about Riddle entirely.

Then Cedric spoke. It was in a murmur, barely audible, and felt more than heard as vibrations through the top of Salomé's head. "Be careful, Salomé. Don't die."

Salomé swallowed. What did anyone even say to that? A sarcastic comment would usually suffice, except that in this case Cedric's words were far too heartfelt, even in their simplicity. Not a demand as much as a request. An almost desperate request, as though Cedric truly needed Salomé to stay alive. She could only manage a faint, neutral hum in agreement.

Cedric tightened his arms just slightly as he drew a deep breath. When he released it, it was for Salomé to feel the distinct brush of a kiss to the top of her head. It wasn't lustful and it wasn't possessive, but simply... other. Like everything about Cedric. "I'll be with you every step of the way. This is your battle, but that doesn't mean I can't fight alongside you."

His words rung in her ears. Unexpectedly, shockingly, Salomé felt something like warmth prickle her eyes. Was that…? Surely not.

She could only nod her head into Cedric's shoulder in reply.


	15. Hde and Seek

** Chapter 15: Hide and Seek **

"Lady Sal -!"

The witch didn't get a chance to finish her words. In an instant she was on the floor, collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut into a heap on the damp grass. Her exclamation had hardly been loud, but Cedric was relieved that she'd been muted before she could continue.

It was Salomé who had done it. Silently, swiftly, with a hex that was both invisible and efficient – one of several she'd demonstrated competency in already. Of course it was Salomé who had reacted first, because regardless of Cedric's and Ron's Auror training, despite Hermione's intellectual superiority and Sirius' status as a war veteran, she was faster. Three times already Salomé had reacted before any of the rest of them could instinctively raise their wands. Three.

"Jumping in first again, Salomé," Sirius murmured from behind Cedric. His voice was low and quiet, but the admiration embedded within was apparent nonetheless. "Save some Death Eaters for us, won't you?"

"Shush," Salomé replied sharply without sparing him a glance. It wasn't the first time she'd done just that in the past minutes. There wasn't anger or even irritation in her tone. It was the simple, cold order that had been the only response Cedric had seen from her since they'd arrived within sight of Riddle Manor.

It was dark. They'd decided to wait until nightfall once more, even if that wait had left Cedric nearly twitching in his skin. He was usually a patient person, but with the knowledge of the hostages buried somewhere within the looming, dark-walled mansion just out of reach he found it nearly impossible to sit still. Ron hadn't managed at all, and he and Ginny had taken to pacing back and forth in steps that had worn tracks in the little, shadowed clearing they'd hunkered in wait within bare throwing distance of the manor walls. Sirius looked ready to chew his fingers off when he'd finished with his nails.

Salomé had been still. Silent and still, seated cross-legged and turned directly towards the walls hidden by thick trees with a blank, unblinking stare. She'd hardly moved for the entire time they'd waited. It was a little strange to see her so poised, her posture so perfect and chin lifted just slightly in a variable emulation of the Apprentice she had once been and yet in an entirely different context. _Salomé_ was different, despite the resemblance to her character as Riddle's Apprentice, a character that had been shaken loose just slightly in the past weeks. She'd been changed, and it was in more than just the clothes she wore. She seemed more human somehow, despite her immobility that more closely resembled a statue than a real person. In many ways, her stability actually managed to instil a modicum of patience upon the rest of their small party; with Salomé as an example, Cedric himself felt the urge to emulate her calm, even if he knew it to be only superficially.

When night fell, it was only to wait longer. In many ways that wait was worse, for to Cedric, every sound caught on the edges of his hearing was a Death Eater creeping upon them, one who had managed to peer through the shields that Hermione had placed upon their momentary lookout. He had nearly heaved a sigh of relief in synchrony with Ron when Neville – about the only one besides Salomé who didn't appear to be physically writhing with the effort of remaining immobile – clocked them at ten o'clock. They'd all risen to their feet immediately, Hermione releasing the wards.

They were a small party of seven, their number minimized as were each of the infiltrating parties to spread their forces. They hadn't managed to acquire more than twenty odd Order members anyway, much to their concern. Remus had returned moments before they'd left Grimmauld Place with the news that many of their safe houses had been abandoned. Apparently Riddle's underlings were making a move.

As such, they'd restricted their number parties to a bare three. Cedric naturally fell into step beside Salomé, and Sirius was but seconds after him in claiming his own position. The rest – Ron and Hermione, Ginny and Neville – had simply responded accordingly and they'd made short work of Apparating to the most distant reaches of the Riddle Manor grounds. Salomé's words, her directions voiced flatly and emotionlessly as to the layout of the manor, of the potential points of weakness in the wards upon the walls, rung in Cedric's head alongside each of the items on their compiled list that they would use to break through them.

They approached on quiet, Muffled feet, Cedric at Salomé's shoulder. He didn't feel comfortable with her going first – an expansive, consuming part of him still insisted that he needed to protect her in any way possible – but she was the one who knew the way best. She knew what she was doing, where she was going, had refined her spellwork to slip through the wards without a glimmer of notice. She was resolved. It was a far cry different to the woman who had appeared so young, so confused and frozen with surprise, when Cedric had released her from his hold outside of her bedroom not a day before.

Now, Salomé was focused. She slipped through the little copse of trees towards the manor walls like a shadow, not even sparing a glance over her shoulder as Cedric and the rest of their group followed as though she hardly cared if they offered her support or not. Quite probably she didn't.

Their first opponent they'd encountered a mere step from the shelter of the trees. Salomé felled him before Cedric even noticed he was there, was skirting past him to the shadowed cover of the looming stonewall and fading into the bushes at the base with fluid speed. Cedric hastened right behind her to Ron's muttered curse and Ginny's similarly muttered words of relief, that, "Thank Merlin we've got her along with us, huh?" Cedric didn't spare either of them a glance either. If he didn't keep right on Salomé's tail, he worried that she might disappear into the darkness before he realized she was vanishing.

The second Death Eater was passing through an iron door in the wall when they happened upon him. Cedric managed to half raise his wand this time, but once more, with a silent, invisible curse, Salomé dropped him to the ground in a tumble. She was already slipping past him by the time their party ground to a halt to prepare themselves for the confrontation.

To Cedric's unvoiced surprise, Salomé bypassed the half-open door entirely. Such was clearly not solely his surprise, too. "There's a perfectly good door here," Neville whispered just loud enough to be heard.

Salomé did pause at that, casting a glance over her shoulder. Her face was barely more than a pale smudge in the dark. "Doors have more wards on them. Only an idiot would go through a door. Now shush." Each word was said barely audibly, flatly, without a hint of emotion even as she effectively insulted Neville in such an efficient manner. Then she spun around and continued sliding along the wall. Cedric hastened in her wake to the sound of Hermione's, "Well, she's probably right about that". Even Neville seemed to agree readily enough; he was the kind of good-natured soul who likely didn't even realise the insult for what it was.

Cedric skirted around the now-crumpled witch, the third of their opponents – or of Salomé's opponents at least. He paused only long enough to ascertain whether she was still breathing or not. It wasn't so much that he cared unduly if she was dead given her Death Eater and a mess of irreparably twisted morals, but if she wasn't he would rather know. It was always best to know what assailants stood in one's wake.

He fell into step at Salomé's side where she had finally paused in edging along the Manor wall. Paused, and taken half a step back to draw her gaze upwards. She gestured with her wand towards the unremarkable strip of stone before her and Cedric was surprised when she actually spoke in explanation. Her words were still next to inaudible but explanatory enough. "Here. It's probably the weakest point on the west side of the wall."

"You can tell?" Sirius asked in a whisper, stepping to Salomé's other side. The rest of their group formed a half circle around them in silent attentiveness.

Salomé nodded, raising her wand slightly and adopting a frown that was just visible where Cedric stood at her side. "The Detection Charms I've cast…" A sidelong glance at Cedric told him she referred to those they'd discussed only the day before. "Yes. And besides, I've something of a familiarity with wards."

"That's new," Ron said in a whisper. "Never used to –"

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione interrupted him, for which Cedric was heartily grateful. He would have said just that himself had she not beaten him to it. Ron had grown significantly less aggressively resentful of Salomé, was now merely disconcerted most of the time, but he still seemed unable to withhold the urge to compare her to his childhood friend. Cedric found that he actually resented him for that in turn.

He didn't spare Ron a second thought, however, as Salomé began sweeping her wand in a wordless incantation. "How can I help?" Cedric whispered. He knew he wasn't particularly adept with wards himself, not like Salomé, or Dumbledore or McGonagall who led the other two parties. He could sense their presence as most witches and wizards could, and the complex Detection Charms he wore like a cloak were picking up a tingle of their presence, but his skills lay more in active offensive and defensive magic rather than the passive, stable and impregnable kind. Regardless of the Detection spells placed upon them, if a witch or wizard wasn't inclined to such skills they would struggle to utilise them. Yet even if he wasn't skilled, he could offer support.

Salomé didn't reply immediately, clearly focused as she was. She similarly ignored Hermione and Sirius' murmured questions of a similar nature. When she did speak it was in a distracted murmur, her eyes narrowing slightly in concentration. "Nothing but… make the wall easier to scale. I'm nearly… done."

Nearly done. Just like that, she was nearly done. Cedric could only shake his head at that and oblige. Raising his wand, biting his tongue on the instinctive inclination to speak the incantation, he flicked his magic towards the stone in a series of puncture wounds less than a forearm's length from one another. The sound of cracks and crumbles was muffled almost immediately by Hermione as she raised her own wand to assist with an alternative Silencing Charm, with Sirius similarly joining in a moment later. Though Ron, Ginny and Neville raised their own wands to do the same the job was effectively completed a moment later. Cedric turned back to Salomé expectantly.

Nodding in satisfaction, Salomé slipped her wand from her hand up her sleeve and into the holster that was strapped to her arm. She glanced at Sirius as he briefly touched her shoulder; just briefly, which Cedric thought a wise choice, as in her current state he doubted Salomé would respond mercifully to being slowed. "Is it fully done?" Sirius asked.

Salomé nodded curtly. "Not erased but as good as for the moment."

"It shouldn't set off any alarms?" Ron asked, eyeing the wall a little warily.

"No. It shouldn't."

"You're sure?"

As Salomé slowly turned unblinking eyes upon the abruptly even more discomforted Ron than their current circumstances had already induced, Sirius heaved a satisfied sigh. "Good enough for me," he said, and without another word stepped up to the wall, adjusted his hold upon the highest handhold that he could reach, and began to scale. He made it look far easier than it should have rightly been.

Salomé ignored Ron quickly enough after that. She strode to follow in Sirius' path he suspected that he would have likely swatted anyone aside with a flick of her magic had they attempted to impede her. All without any emotion, he knew, for her focus was unshakeable. She began to climb the wall behind Sirius just as easily as her godfather did.

"They make it look easy," Hermione muttered at Cedric's side, tilting her chin to follow their progress. Sirius had already disappeared into the darkness.

Cedric nodded, falling into line beneath Salomé. The ease of her own climb shouldn't have been possible for someone who was, by common consensus of the entire Wizarding world, refined, regal and above physical labours outside of those that magic-wielding required of her. And yet, whether it was driven by determination or something else, Salomé pulled herself up the vertical surface like a monkey. "You can use a Lightening Charm coupled with a Bull-Armed Strengthening Charm to help," he whispered in suggestion to Hermione over his shoulder. Hermione only hummed a slightly nervous reply.

The climb wasn't exactly easy, but Cedric made short work of it. The wall was tall, at least five times his own height and Cedric couldn't help but roll his eyes in ridicule because really, Riddle was nothing if not surprisingly paranoid, considering that he was by and large acknowledged to be the most powerful wizard in the world. Yet here he was, surrounding himself with a warded, unnecessarily high stonewall. Cedric found himself snorting and shaking his head at the notion. As if his opinion of the monster of a man couldn't get any lower, it had now grown condescending as well.

Heaving himself onto the top of the wall, Cedric paused for a moment. He drew his gaze in a sweeping glance around the grounds that were lit by the same magically luminescent flowers that he'd seen at Malfoy Manor at the Coming-of-Age Ceremony what now seemed so long ago. They appeared to be somewhat favoured by those of a Darker allegiance and though Cedric didn't know how they were grown he had to wonder why, if only detachedly.

He'd seen enough of the gardens when he'd been Salomé's designated bodyguard, but never truly at night. There had been those frantic moments weeks before, when he and Salomé had fled from Riddle's savage, bloodthirsty tails underlings, but he'd hardly spared those moments a thought but to notice that the gardens themselves were extensive, that they were twisted into a labyrinthine mass, and that they glowed.

It looked different from on high. The gardens really were large, sprawling, the paths faintly illuminated by the greenish light of glowing flowers that looked far too reminiscent of a killing curse for Cedric's peace of mind. He could just make out the manor beyond, crouched like a vast, hulking giant. The feeble glow of curtained windows did little to break up what was otherwise only a deeper smudge of darkness in the night.

Shaking his attention from his scanning, Cedric drew his wand and gestured towards himself. There was no need to climb down – something like floating a human downwards was far easier and less unpredictable that levitating them upwards, what with complementing the effects of gravity – and the distant image of Salomé similarly easing herself to the ground inside the wall told Cedric he wasn't alone in his idea. He spared only a moment longer to glance behind him towards Ginny making short work of the climb in his wake, before slinging his second leg over the wall and shuffling himself off into mid-air. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Cedric took himself to Salomé's side where she'd slipped to the nearest path in a half-crouch. He lowered himself down beside her.

Salomé spared him a sidelong glance that he would have missed had be not been attuned to such sparing notice by now. Her lips pursed slightly, expression apparent in the vague glow of the flowers, before she spoke in a whisper. "It would be better if I just left now. They know the way to the dungeons. I couldn't have made my directions any clearer had I drawn them."

Cedric bit back on the momentary upwelling of satisfied relief at Salomé's words. Not at the intention behind them but at the fact that she'd chosen to speak them at all. He thought he understood Salomé well enough to know that she was disinclined to speak of her thoughts, her plans, to anyone. She was nothing if not an independent person; Salomé likely felt that including others in her plans was nothing if not as frustratingly unnecessary as weighty baggage.

Cedric glanced over his shoulder to where Sirius was helping first Ginny then Neville to settle themselves silently onto the ground. He turned back to Salomé again in an instant, however; Cedric wouldn't put it past her to make good her words and sprint for the manor, even after her temporary consideration for her fellows in waiting to accompany their infiltration. "Your help could still be used making it to the dungeons. The hostages are the top priority."

"They're not mine," Salomé murmured bluntly, lips pursing alongside the barest hint of a frown in further growth of disgruntlement. A frown touched her brow but she wasn't looking at Cedric and it likely wasn't for him. "I've made no secrets about my intentions."

"You haven't," Cedric agreed. "But please, I'm asking you. At least until they can make their way their easily enough."

Salomé glanced sidelong at Cedric once more. "They?"

"You know I'm staying with you."

"You want to save the hostages, Cedric."

Cedric nodded at that truth. The urge to save the youngsters who had been captured – truly, they were more prisoners than hostages, or more likely than that blatant bait – was strong within him. It tightened his shoulders, sickened him in his gut and made him seethe and see blink in momentary darkness when he thought of the potential hard that could have been done to them. That likely had been done. But above that, more importantly then that… irrationally yet desperately… "I do. But I'm staying with you."

Salomé actually turned towards him this time. Turned and stared, her face close enough to Cedric's that he could make out the sharpness of her narrowed gaze, the slight crease of her brow that was a mimic of the confusion he'd seen of her the previous morning. She took a quiet breath as if to speak yet held it for a moment, clearly changing whatever she had been meaning to say. She shook her head, closing her eyes briefly. "You're a fool."

"I am."

"You'll probably die."

Cedric actually felt a smile touch his lips. "I can't imagine you'd let me."

Salomé peered at him sidelong more. Her face settled slightly, hardening in determination. No, probably stubbornly was a more apt description; Salomé was nothing if not a stubborn person. "No. I won't." There was such demand in those short, nearly inaudible words, that Cedric fathomed that should he be on his death bed he wouldn't have been able to take that final step. Not when Salomé ordered him not to.

He had always been something of a slave to her words. That much Cedric had grown to realise.

Ron and Hermione were slower to make their way down from the wall, Hermione visibly panting from the effort of the climb as she shadowed through the darkness to nearly collapse upon the floor. She and Ron followed Sirius, Ginny and Neville towards where Cedric and Salomé knelt in short order, each dropping into a squat so that they were largely concealed by the bushes and shrubs that provided sparse enough cover.

"Are there wards around here too?" Ron whispered, gaze turned expectantly towards Salomé even above Hermione.

Salomé shook her head infinitesimally, shifting slightly in her crouch. "Not inside the walls, no. Or at least none that will overly impede us. We should be able to approach relatively unnoticed."

"So long as we avoid the Lambent Ladies," Neville said.

"The what?" Sirius whispered, raising an eyebrow.

"The glowing flowers, Sirius," Ginny whispered back, surprising in that she knew at all. Cedric had certainly never heard of these 'Lambent Ladies' before, but then Ginny was the one with an avid Herbologist for a boyfriend. "They'll show you up like a _Lumos Maxima_ if you happen to touch them."

No one needed further suggestion of avoidance than that, though it was hardly their decision what route they took. Without another word, Salomé, their unspoken head of the party, rose from her knees into a low crouch and slipped forward through the maze of bushes at a rapid pace. Cedric quickly followed on her tail.

They avoided the glowing bushes as best they could. They avoided the paths too, though mostly because they trickled alongside the bushes. Salomé seemed to know the best route exactly, a fact that didn't really surprise Cedric for the thorough description she'd given the Order of Riddle's manor and the location of the dungeons. Cedric could have contributed, had made to before realising that to do so was somewhat redundant. Salomé could likely recite the floor plan in her sleep. Moody had expressed his suspicions, but at Dumbledores grave agreement and acceptance of her directions he'd subsided with a begrudgingly accepting nod.

It was silent. Their surrounds, their footsteps. And silent though it was, the further they progressed through the gardens the more Cedric felt his tension growing. It had been agitation, frustration and desperation that had gnawed at him when they'd been waiting, but now he felt on high alert as they crept swiftly towards the manor. His senses were sharpened to catch the slightest sound, eyes sweeping around him into the darkness for the barest movement and magic senses tingling for the faintest upwelling of rising curses.

Cedric knew he wasn't the only one, too. Salomé was as focused as ever as she slipped like a shadow through the night just before him, Sirius at his back prowling like a wolf and just as menacing. Ron kept up a steady, revolving movement of his head, scanning their surroundings, while Cedric felt sure Hermione had cast some wordless additional Detection and Alert Charms around herself. Surprisingly it was Neville who appeared the least concerned; he'd grown far from the nervous boy Cedric knew he'd been in his younger years. Not that he wasn't visibly on edge, visible even in the darkness, but he was certainly less so than Ginny was at his side.

There were no assailants, however. No unexpected responses of speed and defence turned offensive, which only really served to set Cedric more on edge with anticipation. They only happened upon someone when they reached the back door to the manor and even then it was a subtle enough encounter that had he not been paying express attention Cedric knew he would have overlooked the faint whisper of Space-Filling Concealment Charms. The back doors were wreathed in darkness even more prevalent than that of the glowing gardens, and through the Cat-Eyed Detection Charms – another spell courtesy of their research – Cedric could see the concealed witches and wizards that peered down the pale steps from the height of the raised veranda like glaring sentinels. Cedric slowed behind Salomé's similarly slowing steps, dropping into a lower crouch in pause just at the edge of the bush-line. He felt more than saw their friends behind them mimic his motion.

"There's three of them there," Hermione's voice whispered from somewhere behind Cedric. "Or at least three that my charms are picking up."

"They're expecting us," Ginny muttered. It wasn't a question. Cedric heard her shift in motion as she turned to someone at her side. "They really are bait, aren't they? The hostages?"

Sirius hummed his agreement in a growl. "But for who exactly? The Order and Dumbledore or…"

Cedric didn't need to glance over his shoulder to know that Sirius' gaze had drawn towards Salomé. Clearly Salomé didn't either as she replied in a flat, detached tone. "Of course for the Order. Riddle's not so foolish as to suppose that I would rise to the lure of faceless captives." And, entirely disregarding her words – for they weren't entirely true, even if they were in essence – she acted. Without a second, without another word or a pause for breath, she leapt from cover.

An invisible curse, evidenced only by the sweeping of her hand barely apparent in the darkness, spun towards the veranda. A second followed a moment later, then a third, the sounds of magical impact cracking through the night. Then Salomé was at the base of the steps and dropped to a crouch, a shimmering _Protego_ springing to life seconds. It wasn't a second too late; the returning spells that struck her shield scattered sparks like exploding fireworks in whites and reds and yellows.

Cedric would have liked to have sketched out a plan. He would have liked to approach the Death Eaters – the waiting, expectant Death Eaters – logically, carefully, with every intention of surviving. But Salomé, for all her intelligence, all her cunning and the skill she danced the political world, was not a team player. And though Cedric knew she could realistically defend herself – her defensive crouch, the posture, the hold of her wand, was so reminiscent of those taught to the new generation Aurors that she couldn't _not_ have known what she was doing – he couldn't take the risk. Cedric didn't pause but flung himself from his own crouch an instant later, mobile _Protego_ springing to existence before his upraised wand.

The Concealment Charm had shredded with Salomé's strike, Hermione's anticipated two witches and one wizard revealed bodily without the warping of the Cat-Eyed Detection Charm. One of the witches had been thrown to the ground in what looked to be a painful collapse, and the other two were still stumbling, even as they launched their own attacks. Salomé deflected and was already rising to her feet when Cedric drew to her side and launched an _Impedimentia_. Turquoise light flared from his wand alongside an orange brightness of Salomé's own hex,. A ruddy light from one of their friends followed close behind.

It was a rapid battle, over in moments. A curse flung, a retreat behind a shield or a dive out of the way. Another hex fired towards the Death Eaters at the door and one felled. The first fallen witch didn't get the chance to rise again, a spell fired – from Ron, Cedric thought – flinging her into the wall beside the doors with an audible smack of her head. Salomé disabled another with a vibrant red _Expelliarmus_ and following a glowing _Stupefy_ shot from someone over her shoulder while Cedric dodged a vivid violet blast, rolled to avoid and sprung to his feet. A moment longer of back and forth spells, then his and two of his friend's attacks struck the remaining witch's chest in a splash of contrasting colours. She slumped to the ground in a heap.

Rising instantly to his feet, Cedric cast an automatic scan around them. He had faith in their Detection Charms enough to consider that, should anyone seek to creep up on them then they would be alerted to their presence before they could attack, but it was instinctive. He noticed Ron conducting the same. Cedric's breath was barely sped up, the fight ending so quickly, but the rapid thumping of his heart in his ears bespoke of the battle readiness he'd unconsciously fallen into.

"That's all of them," Hermione said in a voice no longer quite so hushed as before.

"Not for long though, I'd imagine," Neville said, glancing over his shoulder into the gardens with a frown as though expecting the anticipated back-up to appear at any moment. "It's dark enough here that a show like that couldn't go unnoticed."

Cedric found himself nodding his agreement along with his friends. It had been a nearly silent fight but the gardens would have been illuminated like a fireworks display. He could only hope that the simultaneous invasions from Dumbledore and McGonagall's parties were distraction enough; it was their roles, after all. Cedric's party was that primarily focused upon hostage retrieval, given Salomé's knowledge of the manor. Or at least most of them thought it was.

Salomé was already starting up the veranda steps two as a time, stepping over the fallen witches and wizards. Cedric followed immediately, the rest of their group close behind. Without pause, wand rising almost negligibly, Salomé silently cast at the doors. They imploded with a bang.

"Well, that's one way of breaking an entering," Ron said, his voice surprisingly touched with amusement through its tightness.

Salomé, predictably, didn't spare him a glance. The tall, wide corridor beyond was dimly lit by intermittent candlesticks that did little to stave off the spread of darkness, but it was relatively light when compared to the gardens. Cedric's glance towards Salomé showed the faint lines of her face drawn into schooled focus once more. Had it even slipped in the first place.

He turned his own attention back before straight ahead towards their route and steeled himself. Focus. "Let's go, then. You know the route to the dungeons from here, Salomé?" Cedric could have likely found his way himself, even having never expressly been there, but he would cede to Salomé's prior knowledge.

At his side, Salomé nodded curtly. Then, without a word, she started forwards at a jog that rapidly became a run. Cedric matched her every step.

* * *

Riddle Manor was huge.

If Ron were to liken it to anything, he would consider it closer in size to Hogwarts' castle than to any house he'd ever seen before. It was vast, the hallways themselves wide enough to walk at least half a dozen abreast and at least thrice as tall as he if not more.

If the sheer size wasn't intimidating enough then the décor certainly was. The darkness of timber-panelled walls seemed to drink up the light from mournfully flickering candles. The rich carpet that stretched like a footpath along the centre of the corridor was faintly visible as being the colour of deep scarlet, more of a bloody red than royal. The occasional doors into spaced rooms seemed to spring from nowhere when Ron and his friends were already alongside them; he wasn't alone in starting into sudden wariness for potential assailants.

None arose.

Along the walls, placed nearly as distantly as the doors themselves, were portraits. Depictions of regal, glaring witches and wizards stared at them as they passed. They could have almost been Muggle paintings for their lack of movement, only the faintest twitch heads turning to follow their passing. Ron wasn't sure if it was more or less reassuring that none left the confines of their frames to alert the manor's residents of their intrusion.

Worst of all, however, was the silence. There was a complete absence of encounters. After the few of Riddles lackeys that they'd confronted, both outside of the wall and before the doors, Ron would have expected them to come across and subsequently have to fight at least a couple of foes. Yet… none.

He hadn't considered that lack of confrontation would have been more concerning than actually fighting.

"Where is everyone?" Ron muttered, more to himself and more to break the thrumming silence than because he truly wanted to know.

"Shush," came the reply, and Ron only knew it wasn't Salomé because it came from beside him rather than ahead of where she lead the way. Ginny mimicked Salomé's pitch exactly.

He glared at his sister sidelong, who only returned it. Despite of her scolding, however, Ron was given more of an impression of her nervousness, of her rising tension, than of any particular reprimand. He couldn't blame her; Ron was sure that at the slightest unexpected sound he would likely snap to attention as though struck by a Stinging Hex. "What? There should be someone."

"There should," Hermione murmured from his other side. There was very real nervousness in her voice too. Ron only withheld the urge to reach a hand towards her in search of for mutual support for the need to retain his grip on his wand. "I don't know…"

"It's the baiting," Sirius replied, his voice low. He hadn't stopped his nearly turning scan for a second the entire time they'd been in the manor. Ron wasn't sure how long it had been but his constant attentiveness was admirable.

"What?" Neville whispered.

"A lure," Cedric replied, speaking over his shoulder with voice so low as to be nearly indiscernible. "I'd imagine they're drawing us in as deeply as possible to then cut off our escape routes."

"And we're letting them?" Ron asked, hearing his own voice pitch slightly higher than usual. He wasn't scared but – no, bugger that, for who was he kidding? He was terrified.

Cedric turned back forwards with a slight shrug that looked far too casual for the situation. "What else is there to do? We'll just have to get in an out as quickly as possible."

"If we bloody well can."

"If we can," Cedric agreed.

Ron felt his hand tighten unconsciously on his wand. He knew he wasn't the only one who was scared, could feel it in Hermione and Ginny on either side of him, saw it in Neville for his frequent glances over his shoulder and in Sirius with his agitated twitching. Cedric appeared entirely composed, though for all of that composure, all of his apparent calmness, Ron suspected he held more wariness in the ease of his stance and the long strides of his steps than he let on. And then Salomé…

Ron wasn't sure. For all he knew, Salomé could truly be as calm, collected and focused as she appeared. She'd slowed from her run as they drew more deeply into the manor, seeming to grow on higher alert, yet even then it appeared to be merely a focused alertness. Was she even scared? Did she actually fear the potential for confrontation? Ron knew Salomé had come for Riddle more than she had the hostages. Perhaps she hadn't come for the hostages at all. And yet even with that knowledge, he couldn't discern any tension, any nervous anticipation or fear that he would anticipate from someone seeking to confront the greatest wizard and Dark Lord in the world.

In that regard, even with her silence and lack of emotional expression, Ron found that Salomé was more like Harry than he'd ever considered her before. It was an unexpectedly comforting realisation. For the first time, he found himself able to place his confidence in her. Ron surprisingly felt no qualms about following Salomé's lead, even as she led them into what could have been a death trap. She appeared nothing if not a small young woman, but she held confidence in her step that didn't seem as aloof and condescending as Ron had once considered it, that made her seem greater and more dependable. She was – at least now – quiet, but that quietness only further emphasised that sense of confidence in Ron, as though she was considering the situation with a keenness that her prior unthinking reaction in their sudden fight opposed.

Salomé could very well have been drawing them towards that death trap, but for some reason Ron had an unshakeable confidence that she wasn't. He didn't hesitate once in following her lead.

The feeling of descending Ron was sure wasn't entirely in his head. There wasn't any stairs as such, yet as they continued around corners and through the dimness and silence with only the whisper of their footsteps on carpet for accompaniment, he was sure they spiralled down floors. A left corner, then a right hand turn, another left then down a long corridor that curved slightly of which the end could not be seen for the darkness it seeped into. The absence of windows was profound, and even more so when the dark panelling of the walls gave way to dry, smooth stone instead.

That was when they arrived at the stairs. The stone stairs that led downwards into darkness that wasn't illuminated by even the feeble candles that struggled for brightness in the corridors. Nothing had looked so much like a trap to Ron in his life. He swallowed the nausea rising in the back of his throat.

"Down there?" Ginny asked in a slightly wavering voice. It said something that Ginny's fear was so apparent. Ron had always found her next to fearless.

Salomé only nodded as they each turned to glance towards her. "Welcome to the entry to the dungeons," was all she said, then rapidly begun to descend the stairs. Ron was sure he wasn't the only one to bite back a keen of distress as she disappeared into the darkness with Cedric and then Sirius closely behind her, both at the absence of her lead and the sense of foreboding it provoked. He readjusted his hand upon his wand, shared a glance with a wide-eyed Hermione, her face a sickly pale in the insufficient light. Another swallow and Ron forced himself to step down after them.

The dungeons were cold. Cold and dark, and a shiver immediately settled in Ron's bones. He couldn't help but cave to the urge to draw alight his wand in a glow of white _Lumos_ , and was momentarily gratified to notice that he wasn't the only one. In rapid steps he found himself at the base of the stone stairwell, following in the only direction that Salomé could have been leading them. The walls were closer, allowing for no more than three people to walk side-by-side, and Ron speculated that should he reach overhead he would be able to brush the roof with his fingertips. In contrast to the openness of the above hallways, the passage was discomfortingly claustrophobic.

"How deep does this go?" Ginny asked from behind him, her voice echoing slightly off the walls.

Cedric was the one who replied from up ahead. "Extensively. In a number of directions for a number of… purposes."

Ron didn't want to think about what that meant. The dungeons of Dark wizards were – no, he didn't want to think about what went on in them at all. "How will we know where they keep the prisoners?" He asked instead.

Surprisingly, Salomé actually spoke in reply. There was a distinct detachedness to her words in addition to the echo and faintness that suggested she'd already put some distance between them."I've an inkling."

"An inkling?" Ron asked, hastening to pick up his feet to follow. Hermione matched his step.

"Not in the dungeons I'm more personally familiar with, but I've knowledge of the manor. I'll find it."

Ron didn't like to think about Salomé's 'personal' experience in the dungeons. It provoked too many thoughts, too many bad dreams and painful speculations that had accumulated both over the years since Harry's disappearance and since Salomé had revealed the truth of what had happened to her. He hated – _hated_ – to think what had happened to his friend, what had made him into Salomé Belaire in more than just physicality. It physically hurt to consider, to even look at her sometimes, to hear her speak, to realise that the way she thought was so different to Harry. Ron wasn't ignorant enough to ignore the fact that such was one of the main things he had trouble with when it came to Salomé. It was cruel, yes, but true.

The sound of dripping accompanied them after a time. Dripping, turned corners, a brief lull in that dripping and then a replacement with a hollow whispering sound that was almost like the sigh of wind. Ron felt a shiver rise upon his skin as the phantom gust passed over him. He desperately wanted to light a _Lumos_ but knew he would be foolish to do so. Ominous didn't begin to describe the dungeons, so wreathed in impregnable darkness as it was so that Ron could barely make out the three figures walking before him. It was even less adequate when they passed the first door.

Closed. Locked. Barred. It looked more like an iron-welded safe than an actual door. Then the next one, barely a dozen steps later, identical to the first and barely discernible for the ambient greyness that only barely afforded enough visibility to see by. Then the third, except that this one was slightly open. Ron couldn't help but stop, leaning slightly towards the opening and tentatively poke his wand within. Only to recoil immediately and hasten down the corridor once more. Chains, a wall of iron objects, a stone slab with something like manacles coiled like waiting serpents at its centre. Ron's imagination hadn't needed the sight to provide him with further prompting, but when it was his thoughts only spiralled further.

Dark Artists… the _bastards_. It made Ron sick to his stomach, caused him to tighten his hand on his wand all the more as much to steel himself as to withhold the urge to lash out at something. It was a struggle.

There was another door that was quite literally bars, with only something like a sagging pallet within. Further along they passed a room that held a round table with chairs tucked neatly around it and little else. Beyond that another locked door – definitely locked for Hermione hesitantly checked – and another right beside it. Ron didn't know what to make of the emptiness, of the darkness that no sane man could live in and retain that sanity for long. It looked as though it had been deliberately abandoned. Which, Ron considered, it probably had been. The thought left him even more uneasy, drawing the memory of Sirius' speculated 'baiting' to mind, and he unconsciously picked up his step.

Until they reached a fork in the corridor, that was.

Ron likely wouldn't have realised they happened upon a fork in the hallway had Salomé, Cedric and Sirius not all paused in step. He nearly walked straight into them, eyes still drawn to another door they'd just passed. He glanced between them as he did, though his gaze inevitably settled on the back of Salomé's head in the end. "Which way?"

Salomé didn't turn towards Ron, a lack of response he anticipated by then. She did draw her gaze between the two directions, however, with a hesitancy that her words contradicted. "It's to the left," she murmured.

There was silence for a moment as they all stared at her. Then Sirius prompted her with an, "And?"

"And… something. I can almost feel…" Salomé's gaze was affixed not upon the left fork but upon the right. The right, and then drifting upwards overhead, as though peering through the roof overhead. There was no difference that Ron could discern but then he knew without being told that Salomé with more sensitive than to magic he. That both he and Cedric – Hermione too, and some of the older Order members – had outfitted themselves with a number of spells to further heighten that sensitivity before they'd left Grimmauld Place. Stronger witches and wizards simply were that bit more sensitive, and Harry had always been strong. Perhaps Salomé sensed something? Perhaps she felt –

The wave of power that crashed into Ron was unmissable. He wouldn't have registered it had even come from overhead had Salomé's upturned gaze not drawn his attention to it. When he similarly lift his gaze, it was to wince as though in the face of a bright light, his hand reaching up to grasp his head. It almost felt like a _Legilimens_ attack, but the words that filtered into Ron's mind as much as his ears should have been stopped if it was.

" _I knew you'd come. I knew you'd both come eventually. Salomé, Dumbledore… do not slink through the shadows like pilfering mice. Face me, you cowards._ "

Ron would never have been able to mistake Riddle's voice. He'd never spoken to the man directly – thank Merlin – but there was not a soul in the Wizarding world who wouldn't recognise it. The slight sibilance, the entitlement that was wreathed in demand, the overwhelming pervasiveness that seemed to drown out any other possible sound in Ron's ears. Was it truly even flowing into his ears or did it simply invade his mind? He wasn't sure. Maybe Riddle could do that, even through Occlumency shields.

"You're _not_ going."

Ginny's voice shook Ron from his wide-eyed overhead staring. He glanced towards his sister, then towards Salomé as the focus of her attention. Salomé herself had turned deliberately towards the right hand fork, what Ron could see of her profile drawn into a frown of cold determination. It was a faintly terrifying expression.

For a brief moment, Salomé spared Ginny a glance. That glance was all the consideration she was afforded, however, before with a gesture of her wand hand that threw a thinly illuminating globe into the air, Salomé directed them towards the left fork. "The prisoners will be that way," was all she said. Then she spun on her heel and in an instant broke into a run that vanished her into the darkness down the right passage.

Ron didn't get a chance to call after her. None of them did. They didn't get a chance to call after Cedric either who, without even a pause to speak a word himself, abruptly disappeared down the passage in Salomé's wake. Hermione managed a startled and distinctly desperate cry after them but their footsteps quickly died along with them.

Sirius made a lurching motion to follow. A single step, his face abruptly drawn into a snarl and eyes widened in sudden, angry concern. But he paused, even as his entire body seemed to radiate the need to follow after Salomé and Cedric. He paused, and spared a glance for Ron and his friends, for the hallway with Salomé's globe hanging in the entrance. Then, with a snarl that was as animalistic as his Animagus form, he swept a beckoning gesture at the four of them and started down the left fork. "Come on. Hurry."

Ron remained only a split second in place, his gaze still fixed upon the direction that Salomé and Cedric had disappeared. He knew the prisoners were the top priority, just as he'd suspected that Salomé wouldn't see it that way and at the barest direction would go in search of Riddle. He'd known, even if he'd understood it was foolish to do so, that she would be playing into Riddle's hands and that it would most likely get her killed. And as such, even with his sore and desperate need to rescue the hostages, Ron felt the nearly unshakeable need to follow after her, to help her in her endeavour. She wasn't Harry but she was the closest he had to his old best friend. He couldn't lose her now, not when he was only just realising that. That Cedric was with her hardly eased Ron's fears; if anything it exacerbated them with added worry for Cedric too.

Ron forced himself to thrust that worry aside. It struggled and clawed to remain at the forefront of his mind, but he similarly struggled to quell it. With a forceful shake of his head, he reached out and grasped the hand that Hermione offered to him and hastened to follow Sirius in the direction Salomé had afforded them.

It wasn't a long run, and not because they found the rooms and the prisoners they were looking for. Ron's breath was panting sharply in his ears, would have overridden the sound of any approaching foes, but he didn't need his ears to notice them. He could hardly have missed the glow of half a dozen pulsing _Lumos_ Charms, the collection of stoic, barricading wizards and witches that barred their path. Sirius skidded to a halt as Salomé's overhead globe similarly paused.

The man at the head of the Death Eater party was an Apprentice. Ron recognised that much at least, recognised the handsome, smirking face, the casual yet menacing confidence that belonged to Wesley Forbes. Forbes raked his gaze over their group, smirk widening. "Well, isn't this surprising. We appear to have acquired something of a rat problem."

Ron felt himself inwardly cringe at those words. He didn't consider himself a coward, but before those gleeful words, before one of Riddle's Apprentices, it was impossible not to be intimidated. He felt Hermione's grip on his hand tighten.

At their lead, Sirius growled. "If you want to die, boy, stay right where you are. Otherwise –"

"Die?" Forbes' smile widened eerily as though the prospect truly was enticing. "Tempting, but no. I've my orders, but even had I not… you're far too interesting. I've a desire to play."

It happened so fast that Ron barely had time to raise his wand. Thankfully Sirius was faster, his _Protego_ springing into existence before them, and Ron heard him grunt as the impact of void-like black magic struck in a burst of writhing, shadowy tentacles. He didn't know what the hell that spell was but it terrified him.

Yet Ron didn't have a moment to pause, to even consider that terror. In an instant, acting on the reflexivity that his Auror training had instilled within him, he launched himself into battle mode. In quick succession, Roncast a Tripping Charm, a Propulsion Charm, a Smothering Hex that actually managed to strike one of Forbes' men before he had to throw up a _Protego_ of his own. At his side Hermione, Ginny, Neville – they all acted with almost as much speed.

They fell to the fight. It was fast, terrifying, savage in that hallway that felt suddenly even more claustrophobic, the darkness that seemed to blind Ron even with the presence of the surrounding _Lumos_ Charms. He acted instinctively more than intentionally, throwing himself bodily from spells as often as he deflected them, firing in response. He cast a defensive shield for Neville moments before Ginny did the same for him, and had to throw himself from the wall he'd pressed himself against as it exploded behind him. Somewhere, the distinct sound of Forbes' laughter echoed, the grunts and cries of Death Eaters, of Sirius and Hermione, called in response.

They fought, and it was a desperate fight.

When McGonagall and half of her party arrived, appearing on the scene as though Apparated there, Ron knew they would win. The Apprentice was strong. Cocky, yes, but strong. But even so, even with his companions and support, Ron knew the Order would win by sheer numbers and determination in their forces. To the sound of stonewalls fracturing, the blasts of spells and the incantations shouted when urgency drew tongues into utterance, Ron fought. He steeled himself with hardened determination. They would win. They would win this battle and they would rescue the prisoners. They would all escape without a single loss to their number.

In the back of his mind, Ron found himself desperately hoping that Salomé and Cedric would be just as victorious.


	16. Invincible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A bit of a brutal chapter, guys. Sorry.

Salomé spun in a dodge as she rounded the corner, narrowly missing a hex from – yes, that was Garkon, the bastard. She'd always hated him. With barely a thought, she sent a Binding Jinx his way, a _Stupefy_ a moment later, and in seconds was leaping over the twitching man and onward.

She'd sprung from the alternative exit to the dungeons but minutes before and already Salomé had encountered five such opponents that she'd narrowly avoided falling prey to. The contrast of their presence to the distinct absence of her earlier entrance was very telling. Clearly, Riddle had been waiting, and his announcement had been a signal of some kind. He hadn't stopped with one, either. Hissing words flowed from their omniscient source like a bully tauntingly egging on his victim.

_"_ _I've been waiting for you."_

_"_ _Come and find me, if you dare. Do not force me to wait, Salomé, for I am not a patient man."_

_"_ _You finally showed yourself, Dumbledore. Are you so much of a coward as to slink back into your hole before facing me?_ "

Salomé ignored each call, those spoken to herself and to Dumbledore. She didn't need to listen to them, didn't need their taunting to draw her towards him. She paid them only enough mind to grasp onto the wavering essence of magic that was afforded by the projection of those words, to follow their lead towards Riddle.

She'd find him, and when she did Riddle would regret that he had even considered her easy prey.

Another witch, someone who could have been Hunting but Salomé didn't spare a moment long enough to properly check, was felled by a Blasting Curse and nearly ploughed through the wall as Salomé raced past her. She had passed through the eastern wing now, she knew despite the lack of distinct markers as to her whereabouts. She wasn't sure, but Salomé could anticipate where Riddle was perhaps unconsciously – though likely very intentionally – drawing her.

It must have been some sort of poetic justice that she would kill Riddle in the Meet Hall, the room in which she had 'served' him for so long. It would be like –

" _Stupefy_!"

The cry from behind Salomé, the burst of red magic shooting past her, caused her to momentarily stumble before she realised it had come from Cedric. Cedric, who she had _known_ would follow after her without glancing behind her, who had hexed one of the pair of wizards that had just rounded the corner and nearly overran Salomé before she even realised their presence. Without a thought, before the second wizard could even respond, she petrified him and tossed him to the floor with a flick of her wand.

Glancing behind her, pausing briefly, Salomé met Cedric's gaze. He was only just slowing in his run, wand still raised and face set with a determined frown. He too drew to a momentary stop, breathing as heavily as she as he spared the felled wizards a glance before turning towards her. At her raised eyebrow, he shrugged. "You didn't say I couldn't come with you."

"Would you have remained behind if I had?" Salomé asked flatly.

"Not for a second."

"You wanted to save the prisoners."

"I did. Do."

"Yet you still followed me, like you said you would."

"I did."

Salomé shook her head, unable to suppress an exasperated sigh. Exasperated, yet even so, even with the gravity of her situation, she knew it was vaguely affectionate. It was even… grateful? Grateful. How strange. _Salomé_ would be the one to kill Riddle, no one else, and yet if it were Cedric who accompanied her she wouldn't object hugely.

How very strange indeed.

Turning to face the corridor before her once more, the corridor that stretched into barely illuminated darkness, Salomé nodded curtly. "Fine. Then keep up if you would. I won't wait for you."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Cedric replied, then fell silent as they started into a run once more.

Salomé heard the sounds of battle before she saw it. It would have been impossible not to hear – the grunts and cries of spells cast, the slam of bodies into walls and the clatter as a candlestick was knocked to the ground. Salomé could feel the pulsing of magic like a physical force, like a wind buffeting her even at a distance. She only hastened her step until she was sprinting even faster, rounding turn after turn and not slowing even when one of Riddle's men appeared from a suddenly opened door with a lurching step. He fell beneath her wand and she didn't spare him a glance as he crashed to the floor.

Rounding a final corner, Salomé all but ran into the battle. It was Dumbledore's party. Dumbledore's fighting squad, of Moody and that Kingsley fellow, of Remus and the Tonks woman, the Weasley twins and their two elder brothers alongside two younger witches and a wizard who looked barely older than Salomé herself. They were deeply embedded in the thick of fighting, streams of magic firing in darting streaks and cascades of violent colour, slamming into walls and _Protego_ shields more often than they made contact with a body. As Salomé ground to a halt, retreating fractionally to tuck herself around the corner of the corridor that led to the Meeting Hall, she watched. Her eyes jumped swiftly about the scene, assessing. She didn't have the time to pause, but it was necessary.

The Order was winning. Just. That much Salomé could discern. Moody was a hurricane of fierce aggression, jabbing and swinging his wand arm as though he was physically hacking the air and his attackers around him – a full three of them – were more intent on defending his strikes than fighting back. Remus and Tonks stood back to back, a shield erecting one moment while the other flung a curse over their shoulder, only to drop the shield and fall to the offensive once more.

The Kingsley man was like a battering ram, never remaining still but sweeping in steady steps along the corridor without the spasms fury Moody danced. As Salomé watched he took a blow that momentarily paused him in step, but one of the older Weasleys was at his side a moment later, shield erected.

One of the twins was down – Salomé didn't think he was dead but couldn't be certain – while the other stood over him and defended him furiously, flinging one, then two charging attackers from their feet with well-aimed blasts. Of the youngsters, they were holding their own well enough, even if dodging appeared to be the instinctive response in each of their repertoires. Not altogether successfully, however, for even as Salomé watched, the young wizard she didn't recognise took a blow that launched him from his feet to cartwheel halfway along the hall.

The corridor itself was in shambles. A hole punctured one wall, the opposite crumbling as though the blast that had excavated its mirror had scraped it raw. The splintered remains of two portraits were crumpled across the floor and the carpet itself was a mess of dusty plaster from the dripping wound falling from the high ceiling. A dark burn mark that still smoked suggested a near fire from one of numerous flung candles and toppled candlesticks that had only been narrowly avoided.

Riddle's lackeys were half defeated. Salomé recognised some of them with a split second glance, saw Bexley and MacNair, Pommel and Danesh, their unconscious and potentially dead bodies slumped to the floor while the seven or eight still standing battled furiously. Both they and their Order opponents were a mess, robes torn and skewed, grime and dusty plaster stains streaking faces, an arm loose and hanging or a step shambling in a limp. Yet still they fought. They all fought, and it was furious.

Yet beyond that… beyond, at the far end of the corridor and just discernible for the brightness of illumination within, was the Meeting Hall. The door was barely opened, but Salomé knew Riddle lay beyond. Likely Dumbledore, too. The thought filled Salomé with cold anger, with old hatred and fierce revulsion. The hissing that filled her ears was only recognisable as her own when Cedric briefly touched her shoulder to draw her attention.

Salomé glanced towards him. Glanced up at him, his brow furrowed in an even deeper frown than before and twisted in anger and ferocity. Was he angered by the battle? Worried for his friends? Salomé wasn't sure, but was suddenly, detachedly, very happy Cedric was her ally of sorts. She was abruptly aware that he was significantly taller than she, that he held and wielded his wand like he _definitely_ knew how to use it, and that he had years as both an Auror and an Order member beneath his belt. And that he was angry.

An angry, skilled fighter was not what one preferred to be of the opposition.

"Are we fighting them?" Cedric asked, voice low. He leant around Salomé slightly to frown murderously at the fight taking place.

Salomé stared at him for a moment, briefly confused. It was strange; he had taken to deferring to her since they'd arrived at the Manor's grounds, and though she had only been distractedly aware of it before, it became starkly clear to her know. He ceded her prior knowledge and her decision on the matter. On every matter, even, except perhaps of his accompanying her. That in itself was somewhat unusual. He'd been her bodyguard until only recently and hence been required to follow her orders, but even so it had been very tongue in cheek. Yet in that moment, Salomé knew his deference was entirely sincere.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Salomé peered momentarily around the corridor alongside him once more. Another of Riddle's men had fallen, but also one of the older Weasleys. The two forces were neck and neck. Should Salomé and Cedric enter the fray they would likely significantly tip the balance, but…

Salomé's gaze fastened once more on the Meeting Hall. The distant, illuminated doors that held her unwavering attention. "No. We go through."

"Disillusionment Charm?" Cedric asked shortly.

Salomé shook her head. "Too predictable. Besides, Ferris can see through them like glass."

"Then I'm assuming you thought of an alternative?"

Nodding, Salomé twisted her wand to point it at herself. Frowning in momentary concentration, she murmured, " _Aretero_ ". Almost without consideration, she flicked her wand towards Cedric with a repeated murmur.

"That was –"

"Attention-Diverting Charm," Salomé said curtly, already sinking down into a crouch as she edged closer to the hallway. "It will work for visual cues and well enough in those distracted, though not indefinitely."

"Then we'd better be quick," Cedric replied. His tone was resolute and Salomé didn't need to glance at him to know he was similarly readying himself. "I'm right behind you."

 _I know you are,_ Salomé thought, but didn't voice the words. For some reason, she doubted they'd be conveyed as cynically as she would hope. Not when she didn't feel an inkling of criticism.

She paused only for a moment longer. A moment in which, peering around the corner, she gauged the best route through the fighters; skirting around Moody's fierce battle that was so rapid she could barely see him for the magic sparking in eruptions around him, jump over the felled Weasley and around MacNair, use Remus and Tonks as a momentary shield and then through. A short nod to herself and Salomé sprung to her feet.

She ran and dodged, leaping then ducking as a Leg-Locker Curse spun likely accidentally her way. Quite without thought, she flung a _Stupefy_ at the wizard lurching towards Kingsley from behind before ducking past him and dropping to a roll to avoid Ferris' flying figure. Springing to her feet, another dodge and a Mirror Charm swiftly erected and she was through. Through and racing across the minimal distance towards the Meeting Hall. Salomé didn't mean to but a handful of steps away she found herself sparing a glance over her shoulder for Cedric. He was barely discernible through her own Diverting Charm, but she saw him break through the battle with a hex flung over his shoulder steps behind her. For some reason, Salomé could breath easier for that sight.

Her attention was focused a moment later, however, as with further steps she was at the door. Another and she slipped into the Hall, pushing through the feeble ward of deterrence that was more of a formality that an actual buffer. A stride inside the room and Salomé paused.

It was empty for once. The table that usually sat at the very centre of the open space, long and surrounded by chairs beneath the glaring eye of Riddle's extravagant throne, was gone, seats and throne along with it. The piano had similarly disappeared, leaving only the grandiose chandelier and draping navy curtains – half-drawn for the first time that Salomé had ever seen – to fill the space. It yawned forebodingly.

The only break in that openness was two figures. Two immobile figures standing opposite to one another, wands held loosely at their sides as though they held no desire to use them. Salomé wasn't fooled. Riddle and Dumbledore were the most powerful wizards in the world, two of the most experienced duellers of their time. Both would likely need but a split second to act to an onslaught.

They couldn't have been more opposite, the two of them. On the one hand, Dumbledore stood tall and straight, purple robes pooling around his feet almost comical for the minute stars embroidered upon it, and hat perched just slightly off-centre atop his head. He was an impressive figure in spite of that, even twenty paces from Salomé and seen only from the back as he was, but that impressiveness was aged. He was an old man, wizened, and the whiteness of his hair and wrinkles of fingers just visible from the sleeves of his robes was never more pronounced than in that moment.

In contrast, Riddle was a creature of vitality. Still young, to Dumbledore's tall composure he was cold calculation and sharp focus. He was a figure of black and white, face seemingly paler than usual in the contrasting light-darkness of the room that sharpened the edges of his frame, making him seem oddly flat where he stood half a room away from Dumbledore yet directly across. He would have appeared almost small at such a distance, alone and immobile, bur Salomé wasn't foolish enough to think that his solidarity made him an easy target. No one who saw the touch of a humourless smile at the corners of his lips would.

They weren't fighting, which to Salomé at least was something of a surprise. Or more correctly, they weren't fighting yet. Instead, Dumbledore appeared to be attempting to reason with Riddle. To reason with the utterly unreasonable.

"…been far too long in coming, Tom," he said, his quiet voice ringing throughout the otherwise silent room. The sounds of battle in the corridor were barely audible on the edges of hearing, likely an effect of the wards wrapping the room. "None of my attempts to converse with you, to reach a medium have been –"

"To bargain?" Riddle interrupted. The smile that Salomé knew had never reached his eyes visibly widened. "You wish to reach an accord with me, Dumbledore? You do?"

"I do. I have, Tom. For years."

Salomé thought the old wizard might have been playing with fire to name Riddle as such. He had taken his family name after careful manoeuvring on Salomé's part, a manoeuvre that she'd conducted for the pure satisfaction of berefting him of the self-appointed title, but even so she had never used his first name. She knew she never would.

To her surprise, however, Riddle didn't seem infuriated. He didn't grow livid with the presumption, and in many ways that was worse. An angry Riddle was so much more predictable. Instead, he cocked his head slightly, that serpentine smile twisting his lips, and made to speak. Only for his gaze to settle on Salomé and a spark of… something, of hatred, of brutal hunger, of fury perhaps, to rise in his gaze.

"Ah, Salomé." He hummed as though contemplating a delectable meal in a way that, though never admitted aloud, had always made Salomé's skin crawl. "You so faithfully answer my call once more. If only your past apparent loyalty had been as reliable.

Before Salomé could speak, she felt Cedric step up to her side. His presence was a warmth that she hadn't realised she'd needed; Salomé could handle Riddle, could wrangle him like a rabid wolf, yet it wasn't until that moment that she realised the tension that rose within her at the prospect. How unexpected, that after so many years growing familiar with tempting the devil, she could still find him disconcerting. Cedric, the stoic, unshakeable presence that he had become to Salomé, seemed to shoulder that feeling aside.

Raising her chin, Salomé readjusted her hold upon her wand. She briefly met Dumbledore's gaze as he turned fractionally towards her, sparing but a second to glance her way. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something perhaps just faintly resigned and a little regretful. He was turning away a moment later, however, and Salomé didn't consider it further.

Instead, she fixed her gaze upon Riddle. For the first time since Apparating to the Manor, Salomé let her hatred, her anger, her desperation to _end_ the creature before her, well fully within her. She let it spill forth, urging every ounce of feeling into a snarl and a hissing reply. "How typical of you, Riddle, that you should think your orders are what drew me here. Your ignorance hasn't improved since reality was forced upon you, I see."

Riddle didn't respond to Salomé's words but for the faintest of twitches at the corner of one eye. Even so slight, she felt a hint of satisfaction. Yes, let him be disconcerted.

He didn't speak in retort, however. Or at least not directly. Deliberately shifting his gaze towards Dumbledore, his thin smile grew wider once more. "I shall deal with you when I have finished with the greater problem. Be an obedient girl for once, Salomé, and wait your turn." Then he raised his wand and pointed it at Dumbledore.

The disregard was like a slap in the face. Salomé wasn't jealous that Dumbledore had taken the priority seating in Riddle's view. She didn't much care about Dumbledore in that moment at all. The issue was that _she_ was going be the one to kill Riddle, and she had waited long enough for the opportunity. Be patient? Salomé would be patient when she was bloody well _dead_.

When Riddle acted, it was in an almost lazy fashion. When he fired his first spell it was nonchalantly, with certainty to all in the room that it wouldn't strike. Which it didn't, with Dumbledore's shield dissipating it on contact. Salomé felt her anger – chilling, almost painfully cold – only sharpen at that. How _dare_ he take the situation so carelessly. How _dare_ Riddle remain so offhanded, so confident. Salomé was done with her composure, done with her waiting. She would wait no longer.

And yet as she raised her wand, trained it on Riddle and drew forth her magic to fire, it was to be thrown from her feet by an unexpected force that arose so immediately she barely registered the magic rising until she was being launched across the room. The world tipped momentarily upside down before Salomé impacted the marble floor in a hard smack, breath _whoosh_ ing from her lungs and shoulder jarring painfully. The heavy thump and grunt of Cedric at her side alerted her to his similarly flung status.

In an instant, Salomé was on her feet. She was a trained dueller, had learned to thrust pain aside if not entirely ignore it, for that was the only way to plough through it. Springing to standing, ignoring the momentary dizziness that threatened to throw her from her feet once more, Salomé cast a thick shield charm before her, layering it in quick succession. She wasn't a moment too soon, either, for a starburst of sickly grey magic impacted her wall an instant later.

She knew that colour. She knew the feeling of that magic. Salomé knew who it was that had distracted her from Riddle even before he appeared seemingly out of thin air half a room away.

"Karlo," Cedric growled. Salomé could feel him rise at her side, on his feet as quickly as she. His wand rose, levelling alongside her own, trained upon the Dark wizard slinking like a prowling tiger towards them. "We should have expected the Apprentices."

Salomé silently agreed. Cedric was right, and they should have. Karlo… he was perhaps the worst of them. Or at least the worst of the two remaining. Wesley was as much bark as he was bite and more predictable for it, but Karlo was an unknown entity. Salomé barely knew anything of him at all, had rarely even seen him so embedded in his nocturnal activities as he was, shrouded in seclusion and silence. That made him even more dangerous.

The tall, stick-thin man crossed the room in deceptive casualness. He seemed to ripple rather than step, wreathed in shadows as much as he was his own robes so that it was almost impossible to discern his exact location or the speed of his movement. His dark eyes trained unblinkingly upon Salomé, upon Cedric, and if Salomé hadn't spent years beneath Riddle's gaze she was sure she would have found his stare the most disconcerting she'd ever seen.

As it was, he was still disconcerting. He still provoked wariness from Salomé, and she found she was automatically grounding herself, turning and dropping into a duelling stance. Karlo was the only Apprentice she hadn't duelled with, not even in the half-arsed pain-games that they had each played so mockingly.

Salomé didn't know Karlo, knew only _of_ his skill and area of expertise. Of his embracing of darkness and shadows, of illusions and deception. That lack of knowledge made him incredibly dangerous. Perhaps the most dangerous of all the Apprentices.

Gritting her teeth, Salomé hardened herself. From the corner of her eye, from the periphery of her attention trained upon Karlo, she saw Riddle and Dumbledore fight. It was a slow fight, almost tentative, testing and lacking in any theatrics, but it was a fight nonetheless. Yet though Salomé desperately wanted to seek Riddle, to launch her own attack upon him, she knew Karlo was her priority. Riddle had likely drawn Karlo into his company as he had no others for that express reason.

"We take him down first," Salomé muttered, her words clipped. Cedric shifted slightly at her side in acknowledgement. "Then we go for Riddle."

"As you say," Cedric agreed.

That was it. Without another word, Salomé launched herself onto the offence, mind racing ahead of her and compiling the spells, the dodges, the responses that came to her so naturally. Cedric met her step for step.

* * *

Tom had fallen to insanity.

That much Albus had known for years. He'd known it even when facing the cool, composed and aloof Lord publicly acknowledged as being the greatest in Britain, if not in the entire world. He'd known this, and yet he hadn't fully appreciated it before that moment. No, more correctly, he hadn't had such close exposure to Tom to ascertain just how deep and all encompassing that insanity lay.

"You spiel pretty words, Dumbledore, but you are ignorant," Tom hissed, the smile upon his lips more of a snarl. "There is no such thing as peace."

His words were punctuated by a blast of pure magic, a whirlwind of energy that spiralled towards Albus to crash like a cascading tsunami upon his shields. Albus clenched his jaw, raising his wandless hand before him in an effort to further resist the pressure cast upon him. To resist and finally, with a thrust, to expel it away from him. A second later, before Tom could respond, he called forth a whirlwind of his own, spinning the air into a raging storm that deflected the sharp, darting spear that attempted to erupt from Tom's wand. It lasted only for moment, however, before Tom dissipated the storm and retaliated with a hail of fiery arrows.

It was a fierce battle. A true, crazed, exhausting battle, the likes of which Albus hadn't fought since he'd faced Grindelwald. He barely had the headspace to make such a realisation, however, for his focus was fastened upon the man across from him, the coldly furious, vengeful, hateful and utterly insane man who launched attacks with the speed of a striking snake.

Tom conjured a giant basilisk of flame that yawned and hissed, spitting flames and swinging its gaping jaws towards Albus before he conjured a giant eagle of pure water to intercept its path. Albus cast a series of Propulsion Charms, flinging magical chains that swept like reaching fingers towards Tom at the same time, only for him to explode them each in turn with swift jabs of his wand and to deflect the forced propellers with a bat of his free hand.

A stampede of shadowy oxen was swallowed by the conjured void of glaring light. An illusion of the world tipping on its axis was erased by the forceful reinstallation of reality. Tom threw himself into the sky with a disconcertingly skilful Self-Levitation Charm and soared like a bat, robes flaring like wings, as he transfigured the marble floor beneath he and Albus into quicksand, only for Albus to steady the ground and tear at the roof to drop falling missiles and urge Tom from the air.

Back and forth, back and forth, a blow to Albus' chest that nearly knocked him from his feet reciprocating that which had momentarily cast Tom to the floor. Back and forth, faster and faster, until Albus' attempts to converse with Tom, to request that they reach an accord, that they seek reason or to plead for some sort of temporary amnesty at least until Albus could ensure the safety of his Order and the hostage children, were rendered next to impossible.

Tom still hissed and spat. He still seethed and taunted, his tongue spewing forth words of fury and anger that was as far removed from his initial façade of cool collectedness as to make him another being entirely. Albus didn't let it unnerve him. He knew Tom Riddle, the once-named Lord Voldemort, barely clung to the fringes of sanity that he may not have even possessed in the first place. He could only concentrate on their battle. As much as he could, anyway.

Across the other side of the hall, Salomé and Cedric fought against the Apprentice. Albus knew that from the brief glimpses he'd managed, glimpses demanded of him from the upwelling of concern he felt for the two fighting their own battle. Karlo Stjepanović was a shadow. He was a wraith, one moment there and the next disappeared as though Apparated from the room, though Albus knew such was impossible. He bent the shadows as though they were magic itself, and Albus had already heard more than one cry, of pain, of surprise and concern, from Salomé and Cedric both. There might have been two of them against the one Apprentice, but Albus knew the type of Shadow Magic that Karlo used was next to impossible to counter.

He feared for them. He feared for the two who were his only allies in the battle against Tom and his Apprentice. Yet though he feared, there was little he could do. Albus had his own fight.

Tom launched a blinding flurry of shooting lights at Albus, which, even momentarily loosing his vision as he did, Albus rebuffed by calling forth a sucking blanket of shadow. He immediately swept a shield around himself, a spherical barrier protecting his every side before seeing to the rapid healing of his eyes. It was a good thing he did, too, for not sooner had he erected it than Tom's magic was battering his defences, from the front, the side, the back, even overhead.

An instant later, Albus allowed himself to sink momentarily into the floor, his magic drawing him into the liquefied marble to drag him across the room from his initial standing point. He arose once more, throwing a Caging Curse at Tom that managed to briefly lock around him. Only briefly, however, for with a growl, a snarl and a quivering strain, Tom shattered the golden bars of that cage in a shower of dust. He swept that falling gold dust from him with a frustrated flick of his hand. "Is that the best you've got, Dumbledore?" He asked.

Albus didn't reply. It wasn't necessary anymore. He no longer needed to speak, just as he knew it would be pointless to continue to attempt to do so. He had long since known that Tom Riddle needed to be defeated. That he was a loose cannon that couldn't be allowed to continue his reign of terror. Yes, Albus knew he should have acted earlier. He should have sought Tom out, should have confronted him and put an end to it altogether. That would have been the best approach, the right approach. But now Tom Riddle had to be vanquished – it was as simple as that.

Albus didn't want to kill Tom. He never wanted to kill anyone, nor put those who depended upon him at risk by playing with the possibility of forfeiting his own life in the process. Albus had never wanted to destroy Tom, had never wanted to fight him, even when he knew Tom would only drag the world down into darkness, pain and destruction. That he hadn't already Albus knew was only a matter of chance. Chance, and perhaps the dextrous hand of a child who Albus had thought gone long ago.

Salomé was not Good. She might not be a kind girl, nor generous, not caring or considerate. But neither was she Evil. That much Albus knew. Just as he knew that she was one of the primary reasons the Wizarding world hadn't already fallen to chaos. Albus had long ago despaired over what became of the boy Harry Potter. Despaired and mourned, both before and after Salomé's true identity was uncovered. But in spite of that, and in spite of the wariness he'd developed for the young witch who wielded such power at barely eighteen years old, he trusted her. No completely, not irrationally, but there was trust. And, as he caught a momentary glimpse of the girl from the corner of his eye, saw her dive for cover from a tentacle of shadow moments before launching a shield towards Cedric as he in turn fell to the offensive…

Albus knew she wasn't yet lost. There was hope for Salomé, and in turn that hope was reserved for the Wizarding world.

Bowing his head slightly to Tom, Albus adopted a mild expression. He knew how it disconcerted the demon who had once been his student, how it urged him towards anger that was far preferable to the knife-edge focus that he could adopt so coldheartedly. "I have told you I do not wish to fight you, Tom. You can still surrender should you desire it. Should you come to your senses and –"

"Surrender?" The hiss of Tom's words made him sound almost as though he spoke in Parseltongue. The following chuckle was more of a snarl, the narrowing of Tom's eyes into slits nothing short of menacing. "It is not I who is in need of surrender, Dumbledore. You are weak, old man."

Albus couldn't deny that. He couldn't deny that, as a duelist, he was far from his prime. That he wasn't as fast as Tom, wasn't as dextrous even if his strength was still at its peak. But he wasn't the underdog. This Albus knew with utter certainty. He might struggle to keep pace in the battle, might bend beneath the blast of pure energy and glowing red heat that Tom threw at him, but he wasn't the only one. Perhaps Tom didn't realise, didn't see, but…

Albus saw. He saw the shattered mirror of Tom Riddle's magic gradually chipping away at itself with each spell fired. Did he not realise it? Did he not see? No, perhaps he didn't.

Deflecting another shot, Albus hastened to physically move himself aside from the undulations of the floor that Tom heaved like a rippling rug. He shot in rapid succession a string of icy bullets that cracked and expanded into sheets of Freezing Charm – one, two, three, seven, nine – and reaffixed his shield in the moment when Tom physically dodged himself, melting the Freezing bullets with bursts of flame as he did.

Back and forth.

Again and again.

Albus felt himself tire, felt his nerves sharpen and tauten each time he heard a body thrown from the fight on the other side of the room, heard a cry that could have been pained or triumphant. He watched, felt, as further chips dripped from Tom's magic to fizzle into nothingness, saw the paleness of his face become only more ashen in what could have been anger and hard determination but Albus knew was also something more. No, he didn't want to kill Tom, regardless of the crimes he'd committed. Albus had never wanted to kill anyone in his entire life. But this… this would have to happen. He had no choice.

The decision was final.

Perhaps Tom did realise it. Perhaps he registered on some subconscious level that no matter how he wore Albus down, Albus would only rise again and keep fighting. Or perhaps he was truly just tired of the rallying, the unending strikes, and sought an end. Albus should have anticipated it, should never had expected that Tom would play by any rules other than his own. He saw his error in the moment that Tom's eyes narrowed into slits, when he half glanced towards his Apprentice as the younger wizard fought a fierce battle against Salomé and Cedric.

Then he spun and fired.

Albus responded instinctively. Regardless of how Salomé might perceive him, of how she'd admitted to perceiving him, he cared for his people. He cared for the two brave fighters laying their lives on the line as they fought the silent shadow of a wizard half a room away. Nothing was as important to Albus as protecting those who truly needed the protecting.

Without a thought, Albus spun towards the battle waging to his right, turned and threw in quick succession a pair of shields to reflect the _Ignitio_ that Tom had fired at them, spinning in a double arc of orange-red death. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Tom turning. He saw him snap with inhuman speed back towards Albus, saw him swing his wand around towards him, saw his mouth open in the fated words that Albus, turned as he was, could do nothing about.

 _"_ _Avada Kedavra!_ "

Blinding green consumed Albus, overwhelmed his vision and struck him a pummelling blow that rocked him to his soul. The last thing he saw was the moment his shields reflected Tom's fire. His final breath was one of profound relief.

* * *

Karlo was a demon fighter.

Salomé had fought her fair share of duels over the years. At first it had been from snide, condescending bastards who considered her diminutive and in need of being knocked down a notch further than the ground floor she was already flattened upon. She'd shown then. After that it had been from warier opponents, from those wishing to test their skills against her. That had been even before she was one of Riddle's Apprentices, before she had been officially deemed an 'equal' to those others who were seen as the superior witches and wizards of the Wizarding world. The far superior.

As such, Salomé had always considered she'd tested herself against a range of different fighters. That she could combat anything in open battle short of Riddle himself. That she was versatile, could think on her feet, that she could act and achieve survival more importantly than victory. Jemima was like a feral, yapping dog, all twitches and spasms and exploding into sparks and bursts of aggression. Wesley was a swaggering yet precise fighter, while Loren acted on the defensive until the moment his opponent began to crumble at which point he would deliver the final, countering blow.

Karlo was different entirely.

One moment he was before Salomé, wand sweeping silently and painting the air with streaks of darkness in the Shadow Magic that Salomé had never seen performed before. He would advance, seeming to sweep around Salomé and Cedric's attacks without the need to deflect them. Then he would disappear into one of the navy curtains, or into evaporative darkness, only to spring forth twenty paces from where he'd been to attack.

Salomé was fighting to maintain her focus, to bite down on the rising foreboding that grew rapidly within her with each moment that she was forced from the attack into jerking, desperate defence. She threw her body from the burning path of Karlo's magic as often as she magically shielded herself from it, fell to the ground to duck beneath fire and bodily leapt over shots that sought to wrench her feet from beneath her. At her side – then across the room, then behind or before her – Cedric dodged and deflected just as fiercely. Salomé could only be heartily thankful for the training he'd had that instinctively urged him to duck beneath a Scything Curse, to leap to the side rather than to attempt to redirect the meteorite of crackling energy that would have shattered any attempts at a _Protego_ in a second.

At each dive, each narrow miss – and Gods, at each pained grunt when Cedric wasn't fast enough, or the muted cry when an icy burn singed half of his jacket sleeve off – Salomé felt her heart leap into her mouth. Stupidly. Foolishly. Salomé needed to protect herself. She had _always_ protected herself. Gods be damned that the moment she needed that self-preservation the most was the very moment she was almost too distracted by a previously unexperienced protectiveness.

Dammit. Damn it all.

But she couldn't help herself. Salomé deflected the shadowy tentacles that Karlo sent her way but an instant later, rather than retaliating, she was rising to the defence of Cedric as those shadows turned towards him instead to smother them into nothingness. Instead of grounding herself in an isolated expanse of floor, setting her boundaries and ensuring she had enough space to defend herself, to move, she found that she was at Cedric's shoulder more often than not to ensure that no wayward curse struck him. Karlo, Salomé realised, was good at that; he would fire a primary curse that was easy enough to defend against when focused enough, but the following, discrete and surrounding spells flung with silent, slinking malice – that was the true danger. Salomé had found that out the hard way when a dark, shadowy hand had clasped around her foot, squeezing mercilessly until she could shake herself free. She thought it might have broken a toe or two.

It took a long time, far too long, for Salomé to recover her senses enough to go on the offensive. Or to even consider going on the offensive. Far be it from her speculations that she might be distracted by the fight between Dumbledore and Riddle, Salomé had barely spared the two a glance but for the occasional glimpse of a profound magical display, of a violent explosion or howl of magic. Karlo demanded the attention, even more so in his abrupt disappearances and sudden, confronting presence. Salomé's attention to the navy curtains that seemed to swirl with a life of their own had only grown more pronounced with every moment.

She was standing back to back with Cedric, eyes raking over those very curtains, when she decided. _Enough,_ she thought fiercely. _This is ridiculous. We're getting nowhere._ Half turning, eyes still sharply peeled, Salomé muttered sharply to Cedric. "Offence or defence?"

"My preference?" Cedric asked shortly, barely turning to reply.

Salomé was grateful in that moment for Cedric's quick wit. She'd never fought alongside anyone before and had never wanted to, but if she had to Salomé was glad it was he as her companion. He was intelligent enough to keep his head and respond to her demands and requests. Perhaps even to collaborate.

Nodding curtly, Salomé flung a _Bombarda_ at a flutter of curtains that looked too unnaturally rippling. They were torn from their overhead hanging and savagely exploded into shreds but revealed no one behind. There was no shadowy figure revealed, no shadows at all to hide behind. Damned Karlo and his shadows. "I've an idea of how to combat him, but it will take a moment of focus. Can you –?"

"I'll give you a moment," Cedric nodded. Salomé could feel the slight tension in his back where it leaned into her just barely. There was support in more than just his words for his presence.

Nodding in reply, Salomé readjusted her hold on her wand. "On my word, then," she muttered, which was all she had time for before Karlo appeared in an eruption of shadows from the ground not three strides away. Shadows spawned in thrashing limbs and immediately whipped towards Salomé and Cedric.

Salomé didn't think. Grabbing onto Cedric's arm, with magic powering her arm a she cast him from the grasping fingers of shadow in a tumbling throw. The whip-like cords of Karlo's magic swept into her, catching her in the gut and bodily throwing her in the opposite direction. As she skidded onto the ground, rolling jarringly and smacking the side of her head in a burst of pain, Salomé cursed her foolishness even as she knew she wouldn't have acted any differently had she the moment to think of a plan for action.

Damn Cedric. Damn him for his damn support.

Winded, Salomé clambered onto her hands and knees. She'd acquired bruises on her bruises, cuts and burns that had peppered holes in her jeans, her jacket and her shirt beneath. As her vision returned to her in a blur, Salomé found herself blinking down at her hands. Was that finger broken? It shouldn't be at such an angle. When had that happened?

The thought was discarded a moment later, however, when Salomé shook sense into herself. Her mind was groggy from where her head had struck the ground, but she thrust aside the thought and pushed herself to her feet. Her hair hung in messy tendrils before her eyes, wrenched from their tie, and she found herself breathing heavily.

Cedric was crouched behind a throbbing shield as Karlo's attacks battered at him. Karlo himself was there one moment and gone the next, however, only to reappear behind Cedric in another spawning of shadows. Cedric, never the idiot despite his frequent foolishness, immediately glanced around himself for Karlo's reappearance, dragging his shield with him. Too slowly, though.

Salomé reacted with more reflex than thought. Her feet leapt into flight and she was halfway across the distance to Cedric with wand raised before she'd even formed the thought of the spell that leapt forth with a mental, _Levicorpus!_

It actually landed. In a greenish burst of magic, Salomé's spell sprung towards Karlo and smacked him in the centre of his back before he had the chance to respond. Immediately his legs were swept out from beneath him and he swung upside down into midair. His shadows slumped like wilted saplings to the ground as he momentarily struggled.

Salomé took her chance.

"Cedric!" She cried, skidding to a stop and raising her wand to point directly at the ceiling. She had faith that Cedric would take her for her word, that he would understand the signal.

A second later and the flurry of events that occurred was almost too fast to comprehend. From the corner of her eye, Salomé registered detachedly that Riddle had flung a curse her way. She registered it even if her conscious mind didn't react to it, focused as she was upon her spell. She noticed too that Cedric seemed almost to have Apparated to her side for his speed, erecting one shield and then another and another as Karlo, expectedly, counteracted the jinx upon him. With all of her mind, however, with all of her magic, Salomé focused upon the spell she sought to cast.

 _"_ _Solisus!_ "

The sun that exploded overhead was blinding. So blinding as to completely overwhelm the sudden burst of green curse-light that erupted from the corners of Salomé's vision. It was vibrant in its golden whiteness, arising from the tip of Salomé's wand and expanding in a split second to envelope the room and drive the shadows into oblivion. It was warm, hot, almost too hot, as though the sun truly had descended from the sky to wreak havoc on the Meeting Room. On the corners of her awareness, Salomé heard a feeble cry that sounded far too pained and wrenching for even the burning assault of that light.

It endured even when Salomé's arm collapsed for the effort. She'd put more magic, more energy, into that one spell than was necessary, but she'd been desperate. And had it worked? She thought it had. She hoped it had.

Dropping her gaze to where she'd last seen Karlo – could still just faintly see him through the painfully blinding whiteness she'd conjured – Salomé struggled to raise her wand once more. To point it at the Apprentice who looked to be in physical agony, as though alongside the destruction of the shadows he too was being torn apart. Salomé saw him slump to the ground, fingers raking at his head as though he sought to tear his scalp apart with his fingernails.

She had no pity for him. None at all. He was Riddle's, and that meant he had to go. Training her wand, Salomé uttered the first spell that arose in her mind. " _Confringio_."

The Breaking Spell tore Karlo apart. There was no refined way to describe it, and somewhere in the back of Salomé's mind she knew that she had been unnecessarily brutal in her subconscious decision. Karlo snapped his head backwards, his spine bending with such speed into reverse that it seemed as though he'd been physically flipped. The almighty snap that resounded throughout the room seemed too loud in Salomé's ears. The subsequent snaps were no less jarring as the Apprentice's arms popped, dislocated, bones snapping and neck jerking, as his torso twisted with a crunch and he crumpled in upon himself. As slowly, slowly, the light of vibrant sun faded like dissipating mist, Karlo slumped limply to the ground.

Salomé found herself sagging. Just slightly, but enough that she had to physically catch herself or risk collapsing to her knees. She didn't know if it had been the Sun Spell or the Breaking Charm, or perhaps simply the sheer adrenaline of the moment, but she felt exhausted. With a struggle, Salomé managed to turn in the direction she'd seen the fight being played across the room, towards Riddle.

Riddle, who, regardless of how exhausted she was, Salomé would defeat.

Riddle was sagging slightly. For some reason, he looked to be struggling under the weight of his own body. As Salomé watched, struggled herself to straighten at Cedric's side as he too turned, Riddle jerked and snapped his gaze upwards. Not towards Salomé or Cedric but to the figure lying sprawled and motionless behind him.

Salomé didn't care for Dumbledore. She hadn't for a long time. But at the sight of the old man so completely deflated, so empty of life, she did feel just a touch of regret.

* * *

Cedric registered that Dumbledore was dead. He registered it just as he filed that knowledge away for later consideration. Would he be sad? Angry? Regretful and remorseful? Or would he not care at all? Cedric didn't know but he couldn't spare the moment to consider it.

Without conscious thought, he found himself stepping close enough to Salomé that he they were touching. Cedric's vision was still blurred from the brilliant light she'd conjured – what even was that? – but he could make out their surroundings now. He could discern the shattered figure of Karlo behind them that he disregarded as momentarily unimportant as soon as he deduced the Apprentice was no longer a threat.

From his periphery, he could see Salomé beside him, her clothes torn and bloodied, hair hanging more loosely around her face than in its tie, face paled to ghostly whiteness. She would be exhausted physically and magically, Cedric knew, even if she wouldn't admit it. She hadn't had the chance to fully recover from her previous magical exhaustion, even after weeks of rest. Cedric wouldn't be surprised if she was nearly dead on her feet.

And he could make out Riddle. He stood directly in the line of Cedric's sight, between Cedric and the old wizard he'd just killed. Riddle seemed… different. He struggled to stand straight, but that struggle was evident, his back sagging to a hunch. He was as white as Salomé, his eyes suddenly seeming to have sunken into his skull like shadowy pits. How had he deteriorated so abruptly so far? Was it because of the fight? Because he'd killed Dumbledore? But why?

Cedric didn't get the chance to compile an answer. His attention was drawn to the sound of Riddle's voice as he uttered a cold, deep chuckle. That, if nothing else, was the same as it always had been. "I suppose you were my most apt pupil, Salomé. I almost expected Karlo to have destroyed you."

Salomé didn't reply, which was as much a testament to her weariness as anything else. Cedric found himself reaching an arm unconsciously around her shoulders to offer what support he could. She didn't shrug him off.

Riddle continued with a smirk that was at odds with his evident exhaustion. "This was how it was meant to be, then. Dumbledore was nothing but an idealist; he was born to die." Another chuckle that sounded just slightly croaking. Cedric wondered if Riddle heard that feebleness. Maybe that was why he stopped speaking.

When he did, his gaze settled not on Salomé but upon Cedric himself. His cruel smirk that held not a hint of sincere amusement settled upon his lips. It was all too familiar but triggered Cedric more towards defensive anger than to submission and intimidation. "Step aside, boy. This is not your fight. Perhaps, if you are obedient, I will even spare you for a time when Salomé and I have reached our agreement."

"Not a chance in hell," Cedric said, arm tightening around Salomé's shoulders. He wasn't foolish enough to consider there would be anything so amicable as an 'agreement' reached.

Riddle's smile was as cold as his chuckle. "On your head be it, then," was all he said. Then he raised his wand and, in a burst of green, launched the distinctive sword of the Killing Curse.

Cedric responded instinctively. He dragged Salomé to the ground and onto their knees, immediately flinging his wand up to cast the strongest _Protego_ he could manage. It wouldn't last long, he knew – little could against an Unforgivable Curse – but he would hold it for as long as he could. With the exhaustion evident in Riddle, exhaustion he clearly refused to acknowledge, he might even be able to outlast him.

Except that Cedric didn't need to. Not alone. As the molten green magic struck his shield, spreading like pooling liquid through the semi-transparent dome of Cedric's shield, Salomé raised her wand at his side and without utterance reinforced his _Protego_ with her own. It grew in opacity until it was nearly a wall of cloud pulsing before them, a white cloud tinged green by the spell bearing down upon it.

Cedric couldn't see Riddle. He couldn't see the source of the curse through the curse itself, through the thickness of the shield he and Salomé held together. But he could feel him nonetheless. He could feel the leaning weight of the man's magic as he pressed more and more strength upon them, thrusting more and more demandingly at their defences.

Surprisingly, Cedric found that he felt no fear. He rarely did when he was actively defending someone other than himself, and he'd never wanted to protect anyone as much as he did the girl at his side. His wand arm remained strong and unwavering, the flow of his own magic constant as he breathed as much energy into maintaining his shield as possible. Beneath his arm, the arm that still clutched her to his side, he could feel Salomé grow rigid with her own tension, with her own maintenance of forceful output. They knelt together strong and fast, unwavering if only for the moment.

Something would have to give. Cedric knew that. He knew that it couldn't last forever, that their _Protego_ , regardless of how strong it was, couldn't persist indefinitely. The curse itself pulsed and undulated, spitting flames of deathly magic from its striking point, each spitting tongue causing Cedric to unconsciously sink further onto his knees. They couldn't last forever, one would cave at any moment, and without deeper consideration Cedric knew it would be he and Salomé that would fade first. This was Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard in the world. There was no way –

It spluttered. Like a Muggle television short-circuiting, the pool of green flickered and momentarily dissipated. It strengthened again a moment later, but to Cedric's eyes, to his magical senses, he could feel it faded. Fade, and then rise, fade and rise again like an undulating wave. Fade then rise, rise, peak, and fall and rise and –

Cedric responded instinctively. Instinct was about the only way he'd been able to react that night. He didn't know what was happening, couldn't see Riddle past the flaring screen of magic, but his body responded as though he did. Swinging his wand overhead, the _Protego_ Charm arced in a full dome over him. Cedric turned an instant later and into Salomé's startled utterance threw himself over her in as much protection as he could manage.

A moment later the room exploded.

The assault upon his magical senses was like a true explosion, even if there was no true heat or physical force behind it. Cedric squeezed his eyes closed, tucking his head into Salomé's where she lay beneath him. His ears rung with the pulsing waves of magical energy, drowning out any sounds that could have been heard. Had his eyes managed to pry open, Cedric knew he would have been blinded. He knew on an innate level that what swirled around him and Salomé in a whirlwind of rage and fury only barely withheld, would be deadly to behold.

He didn't know how long it lasted. Cedric didn't bother counting the time, couldn't spare the headspace for anything but _protect her_ and _maintain the shield_. Eventually, however, it did. Not immediately, but instead in throbbing waves, like ripples in a violently disturbed lake gradually easing. Cedric didn't move when it faded – not completely, perhaps never completely – but maintained his curved slump over Salomé. He didn't want to look for fear that they would face their death, that it wouldn't be over as the force, the energy, the _explosion,_ had such capacity to insinuate.

Cedric could hope, but he couldn't believe. Not yet.

Eventually, however, he was forced into action. Not by Salomé, surprisingly, who hadn't moved an inch beneath him but for the blessed reassurance of her breathing in tense gasps. It was the sound of crumbling that urged Cedric to move, to finally respond. The crumpling, the cracking, the shaking.

When Cedric looked up, it was to destruction. Not a single navy curtain remained hanging from the roof, only the dregs lying in piles of rags burning beneath green, crackling flames. The chandelier had unhooked, flung across the room to embed itself halfway through the wall, breaking through plaster and stone and leaving a crumbled avalanche beneath it. The walls themselves were seared and blackened, the polished marble floors streaked with dust, the blue venation obscured.

There was no sign of Riddle.

There was no sign of Dumbledore's body either, or Karlo's, but it was Riddle's absence that was the most profound. Not a trace of him remained, not a tatter of clothing, a dropped wand, even a severed limb to tell of where he had once existed. Nothing but a slight darkening of the floor that Cedric recalled as being the vague location of his standing. Was he…? Could he be…?

"Where… is he?"

Cedric dropped his gaze down to Salomé still lying beneath him, struggling to produce words louder than a croak. She was still a mess, looked even more exhausted and was far too pale, but her attention was focused upon the blackened ground. Rapidly rising confusion, something akin to indignation, even anger, was growing upon her face, crinkling her brow and widening her eyes.

Shaking his head, Cedric finally, reluctantly, drew away from her to allow her to waveringly straighten. The urge to protect, to shield, still throbbed through him, but he shunted it aside. Such an urge was only made fiercer when a chunk of ceiling the size of a car crashed to the ground across the room. Was the manor… was it collapsing?

"I don't know," Cedric replied, his voice as feeble as Salomé's. He drew his gaze around himself once more, confusion only intensifying with every moment. _Where the hell had Riddle gone? He couldn't have… was it possible that somehow, unbelievably, he'd destroyed himself?_ How _was that even possible?_ "I don't know, but we have to get out of here."

It was a struggle to rise to his feet, but Cedric managed. Without a word, without even a glance of acknowledgement from Salomé to permit him to do so, he hauled her to her feet alongside him. Something very akin to anger – exhausted, frustrated anger – was rapidly twisting her expression. Through the grogginess in his head, Cedric couldn't pinpoint why, even if something in the back of his mind felt like it understood. He thrust contemplation aside for the moment at least. There were more critical things to consider, like the building falling down around them.

Another piece of ceiling dropped, closer to them this time. Cedric tightened his hand on Salomé's wrist. Not for a second had he released his grasp, but a different kind of worry, a different sort of tension, was quickly taking hold of him. "Salomé, we have to –"

"That _bastard_ ," Salomé hissed, the sound desperate and almost mournful through the rage. Cedric could see furious tears welling in her eyes as he never had before, her lip curling and hand balling into a fist at her sides. "That _bastard_. He took _everything_ from me and now he's taken his death too?"

Her words were punctuated by a particularly loud crack from overhead. Cedric snapped his attention upwards, fastening upon a fission rapidly spreading from one of the corners of the roof. He glanced towards Salomé a second later, taking a step towards the door to the Meeting Hall. Salomé was nearly immoveable in her rigidity, rage radiating from her and gluing her to the ground. Her gaze was trained murderously upon the point where Riddle had last been, the moment before he'd… he'd destroyed himself?

"Salomé, we need to go." Cedric gave her another tug that barely moved her. She didn't even seem to notice the shower of dust raining from the ceiling. "Now. We need to go _now_."

Still no response. Salomé didn't even seem to hear Cedric, didn't appear to feel his tugs on her arm. Cedric hesitated only for a moment longer, deciding he could pay for his decision later when they weren't in the middle of a collapsing building. When they'd worked out what had actually happened to Riddle, how he had apparently vanquished himself.

Reaching towards Salomé, in one swift motion Cedric swept her into his arms. That at least elicited a response, a yelp and a spit of fury, a cry of something that Cedric had to ignore. Turning, sparing not even a final glance towards the point of Riddle's demise, the shadow of Dumbledore's death, he threw himself into a sprint from the room. Salomé's cries and rising shouts of rage was a discordant melody to the cracking and crumbling, the smashing and splintering.

Cedric didn't care. The anger in Salomé's voice almost managed to drown out the pain and utter mournfulness that welled just beneath.

* * *

Into the night, from the back door of Riddle Manor, a party of dark figures raced. They were barely discernible in the night, the green glow of the garden's Lambent Ladies doing little to assist with identification. What _could_ be discerned, however, was that they were fleeing. At about a dozen in total, they stumbled and tripped, dragged and grabbed at fellow hands as they nearly tumbled down the shadow-swathed steps of the veranda and into the night.

Some were slumped as though physically pained by the act of running. Perhaps they were exhausted. Perhaps they were injured. Others ran nearly backwards for the frequency with which they glanced over their shoulders. They were in a nervous frenzy, desperate for escape. Only the tall figure of an elderly witch that took up the rear, a stately shadow that seemed to sweep as though on a raft rather than run, maintained any kind of composure. Yet even they moved with all due haste.

The manor groaned as though regretting their departure.

Minutes later, and as the first party disappeared into the gardens, the second appeared. They stumbled nearly as much as the first, though such was likely more due to the fight that was still being warred with those behind them. Plumes of bright magic erupted from wands to strike at opponents, flinging those following into further distance behind and illuminating faces. Here a pair of redheaded young men, there a young girl with eyes widening as she caught a spell upon the hollow surface of her shield, behind her a gnarled old man with a shambling walk and one glaring eye.

Their pursuers chased them into the garden, but soon even the sounds of fighting faded. Behind them, the manor wailed and sobbed, the walls moaning as though sinking to its very foundations. Somewhere deep inside, something cracked.

The final party was only two. Two with only one running as the other was slung over his shoulder – at least until they spilled out onto the veranda. When they did, it was for the carrier to stumble to a stop as his burden flung themselves from his arms with a cry that was as much affront as desperation. There was a moment of pause, a moment of silence, and then the carried spun in a motion just visible towards the manor behind, towards the doors that yawned gapingly in their wake. Another pause as she stare.

Then fire sprung from her wand. Fire rich and red and orange and yellow and white, with a heat so intense that it would have singed those who stood too close. The fire coiled like a creature of rising flames, spreading wide, bat-like wings and morphing into something that could have been a creature but could have just as easily been the menacing form of Fire-Incarnate. It swirled forth, reared, and then sprung forwards in a dive that struck the manor a savage blow.

In moments, as though lit from the inside, the building was lit in an explosion of flames.

Walls cried their pain as plaster and paint was chewed by hungry, burning teeth. The whistle of metal sizzling and popping punctuated the cracking, the shattering smashes of rooves caving in and rooms folding upon themselves. Windows burst and shattered, releasing gusts of hot air into the night from the puncture wounds. Somewhere, deep inside, the sound of screams could be heard.

The two stood for a moment longer on the veranda. They stood as though frozen before the intense heat of destruction, the vengeful flames that consumed all in its path with greedily grasping fingers, leaving nothing but ash in its wake. A long moment of staring, of silence, of pondering in which not a touch of emotion graced either face. Then the wizard reached a slow, almost tentative had towards his companion and, without a backwards glance, drew her down the veranda steps and into the night.

The gardens swallowed them whole to the backdrop of a castle and prison collapsing into nothingness.


	17. A New Age

Grimmauld Place was a riot of activity. From the moment the first of their number Apparated back into the dark, gloomy halls, the walls had been shaking with shouts, with the rapid steps of those that hastened to the upper floors for medical supplies, down to the kitchens for bowls of water and linens. It was a surprise that Walburga Black hadn't added her own screeching accompaniment to the cacophony.

It all centred around the basement, however. The basement, with its pockmarked dining table and leaking fireplace that emitted a faintly acrid smell. There were far more people wedged into that closeted, windowless room than could realistically fit, than could _comfortably_ fit, but none seemed inclined to move. The desire to simply be around their fellows seemed an innate need.

Salomé was wedged in the corner of the room. Her seat was right by the fireplace, which was far too hot but was out of everyone's way and to attempt to escape from the room would have meant attempting to wade through the injured ex-prisoners and Order members, slipping past her old friends and struggle to avoid their notice. In that moment – really, for the entirety of the past hour – Salomé simply couldn't bring herself to even try. She couldn't bother to care.

Across the room, Sirius was kicking up a fuss in resisting Remus' attempts to wrap him in bandages. To his side, Ron was helping Hermione to splint several of his fingers, pausing every now and then to touch at the still swelling bruise erupting on his brow. A little further along the table, Neville was slumped into a seat in what looked like an actual doze, Ginny leaning heavily against him as she talked quietly to a blonde girl about her own age who Salomé recognised as being one of the prisoners. The girl was perhaps the most able of her fellows.

The rest of the ex-prisoners were in varying states of damage, of struggling to remain conscious, wincing and crying in pain as the resident healer – some no-name that Salomé recognised only by face – moved through their ranks to patch them up. Or they and at least half of the Order members, at least; those whose injuries weren't negligible enough to deal with themselves like Ron was. Three had already passed out in their seats, Moody being one of them, and had needed to be moved upstairs. At least another two looked on the verge of following them.

It was all a flurry of activity, with people darting between their fellows more frequently than was necessary, scraping chairs in ear-splitting groans that set Salomé's teeth on edge. Kreacher, by Sirius' express order, was assisting in replacing bowls of boiled water for the bloody or cooling the ones the Healer was finished with. He grumbled throughout his duty. McGonagall, Snape, Arthur, Cedric's parents and a couple of others that Salomé vaguely recognised, the man Kingsley amongst them, were talking in voices that were perhaps supposed to have been low and private but resounded across the room audibly enough.

"Does it mean…?"

"… have to be absolutely certain…"

"It hardly matters for _now._ Still so much to fix up…"

"Forbes managed to get away… be a problem…"

Salomé ignored them all. She didn't have the care in the moment to attend to their questions and speculations, even if it would only have been for her own sake anyway.

Cedric had placed her in the seat. Or perhaps not expressly _placed_ , for he hadn't dared to try and pick her up again after she'd threatened his life at the manor if he attempted to do so again, but his direction had been suggestive enough. For all of Salomé's lingering frustration towards him, when he'd urged her onto the rickety old chair in the corner with a murmured, "Are you alright? Can I get you anything?" she hadn't been able to spit a biting reply. Instead, she'd just nodded.

Cedric hadn't left her side until barely minutes before when McGonagall had requested his momentary attention and beckoned him to her side. He and Salomé hadn't been speaking, hadn't shared more than a handful of sidelong glances that felt weighted with a meaning Salomé couldn't interpret. Salomé was relieved that Cedric didn't attempt to speak. She was more than happy to remain silent with her thoughts. Still, when McGonagall had requested him, Cedric had glanced towards her with something that appeared almost a request for permission, to which Salomé had only shrugged before shifting her gaze back to scanning the room detachedly. Cedric left.

For all that Salomé saw, however, she barely attended to her surroundings. For all that she heard, her mind was elsewhere. She saw the kitchen, but what she _saw_ was the charred and collapsing Meeting Hall. She heard the voices of the Order members but what she really _heard_ was the hiss of Riddle's voice, the throbbing pulse of his magic that struck her on an audible level. She could still feel that strange, not-quite heat of the explosion, could still smell that burning and dustiness, the smell of Cedric as he'd thrown himself over her before she'd even registered what he was doing.

But even that memory wasn't what occupied her mind.

At the forefront was what remained of Salomé's anger. Of her hatred and seething rage. The mournfulness that had welled within her when she realised that what she had chased for years now, what she had sought to accomplish as her sole goal for so long, was torn from her grasp. That Riddle had taken the one thing from her that she still coveted by destroying himself.

Salomé hurt. She hurt in an unexpected way, and it was more because after that initial sting of violent pain in her very core, she'd become hollow. Almost as though she'd emptied, become drained, leaving only an ache in its wake. Yes, there was the residual of her anger, of her determination and sheer loathing for the man who had destroyed her life, but in many ways it was secondary. Almost as though what little remained was experienced as though observed in another. Salomé couldn't really feel I anymore but sort of just… drifted.

What was left now? She knew that Riddle was dead. That the man who had tormented her for so long, for her _entire life_ , was vanquished. How it had happened Salomé could only speculate upon, even if she did consider her speculations likely accurate, but that hardly mattered. What was important, what lay at the forefront of her mind, was that Riddle was gone. And with it, he'd taken whatever meaning had remained to Salomé.

What did she even do now? What did she have left? Salomé didn't know how to live without Riddle, without his death as her endpoint. She felt cut loose, a boat floating adrift, both for the fact that she hadn't managed to accomplish that goal herself and because it had been the only thing holding her focus. Now it was just… gone. What would she do without that? What was… what was there _left_ to do?

Salomé pondered. She found herself observing the basement room with eyes that saw the Meeting Hall at the manor, but even her mind was elsewhere. Lost. Drifting. She couldn't…

"Mistress should be taking her drink now."

Slowly, blinking to draw herself back to the present, Salomé turned towards the little house elf at her side. Nanny, who was gazing up at her with wide, sombre eyes, who hadn't moved from her station alongside Salomé's seat since she'd been urged to sit. Salomé could have requested that Nanny help as Kreacher was doing, could have ordered her to make herself useful rather than wait silently with a glass of water cupped in her hands for Salomé's convenience. Nanny had deemed herself Salomé's elf, regardless of the fact that Salomé didn't see her as 'hers', and wouldn't listen to anyone else's requests. But even so, Salomé couldn't bring herself to speak. To bother. To care. Besides, Nanny seemed determined to stay where she was. Though she'd never expressly gone against orders before, the ancient little elf had always possessed the capacity to decide _exactly_ what she did. If Nanny wanted to remain still and silent at Salomé's side, Salomé was under no allusions that even should she be ordered otherwise she would manage to maintain it.

Shifting slightly in the discomforting seat, Salomé shook her head. "No thank you, Nanny."

"Mistress is needing the water. Nanny is overhearing of what happened, with the fires and the burning and the fighting." Nanny shook her head solemnly, ears flapping just slightly. "Dangerous and weary trials, it was. Mistress Salomé needs to be drinking." And once more, the elf raised the still-chilled glass in her hands in offering.

Salomé hesitated only for a moment this time before accepting, and not because she suddenly saw reason in Nanny's words. Taking a sip, her mind was drawn instead to the fire at the manor. The fire that Salomé herself had conjured, that had torn through the building in seconds and chewed through every piece of stone and wood and skin that it happened across. Perhaps Salomé should have been regretful for that, guilty that she had likely killed every single one of those who still remained inside the manor, but she couldn't bring herself to. She had never been a guilt-ridden person, and they had been Riddle's underlings through and through. Everything of Riddle's should be… it should be…

With a sigh, closing her eyes on the image of flames that had been almost as intense and destructive as Fiendfyre, Salomé reached down to place her barely sipped water on the floor beside her seat. Nanny snatched it up as soon as she'd let it go and repositioned herself stoically once more, hands cupped around the glass. Salomé bit back a sigh. "Thank you, Nanny. I'm alright, though –"

"Mistress Salomé is not alright," Nanny muttered in a reproving grumble. "Nanny is not a fool. Nanny can see, and Nanny is seeing that Mistress Salomé is not alright."

Surprisingly, Salomé felt something of a smile touch her lips. Nanny truly was like a doddering, doting old grandmother. It was unlikely that she truly perceived anything wrong with Salomé, that it was her suspicion that something _should_ be wrong that drove her to such speculation and reprimand. Even the sidelong gaze she turned up at Salomé was distinctly chiding and not at all reminiscent of what was expected of house elves. Shaking her head, Salomé allowed herself that sigh. She let her eyes slip closed. "For now, I'm fine. Thank you, Nanny. You're relieved of your duties for the night."

"Nanny is relieved of her duties for never," Nanny refuted a little indignantly.

"Then you may seek your bed. It's late."

"Nanny does not need to be sleeping."

"Oh, I'd wager you do," Salomé murmured. "Even house elves need their sleep."

"They really do, you know. You should listen when people tell you things about yourself that you haven't realised before."

At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Salomé opened her eyes and blinked up at the girl who stood directly before her. She recognised her as the one who'd been talking to Ginny but minutes before. Barely taller than Salomé herself, she was pale, blonde-hair somehow managed to remain free of the grime that touched her cheeks, and a somewhat eclectic arrangement of clothes – bright, multi-coloured tights, striped socks, a high-waisted skirt with crumpled pleats and a jacket that looked about three sizes too big for her. Dangling from her ears were – yes, they were radishes. Radishes as earrings? What an interesting choice.

"Mistress Lovegood should mind her own business," Nanny muttered with far more presumptuousness than was expected of a house elf. "Nanny doesn't need to sleep."

Lovegood didn't look offended in the slightest by Nanny's words. Quite the contrary, she gave a small, distracted smile and shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll make sure to carry you to bed if you fall to sleep." Then, to Nanny's grumbling that she would never be so lax as to require such assistance, Lovegood stepped to Salomé's side and settled herself into the seat Cedric had vacated minutes before. She turned to Salomé, smile still settled, and held out a hand. "Hello. My name's Luna."

Salomé stared at her for a moment. She stared and slowly blinked, dropping her gaze to the proffered hand. Whether it was the fact that she was indeed tired, too detached for her usual intimidation to have any impact, or Lovegood – Luna – was immune to such, the hand remained outstretched. For some reason, Salomé couldn't bring herself to ignore it as such a presumptuous request would usually encourage her to do. Perhaps her attempts to make nice with the Weasleys the past few weeks had worn off on her.

Slowly, Salomé reached her own hand towards Luna's. It wasn't a handshake she received but more a linking of fingers in a manner that was far too familiar, far too friendly, for someone she'd only just met. Luna's smile widened as though grateful for the offer of her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Salomé. I've heard a lot about you from Ginny."

"Have you indeed?" Salomé murmured, glancing briefly towards Ginny. She, like Neville, appeared to have fallen into a light doze. Or perhaps a heavy doze, more correctly, for Ginny's limp slump and gradual sliding in her seat. She'd probably be on the floor in a minute or two.

At her side, Luna nodded and turned her smile towards her friend. "Everyone has in the Order, you know. You're quite famous: the wizard turned witch, evil turned good." At Salomé's unrestrainable snort, she turned back towards her. "It's all very romantic."

"Is it just?"

"Well, it's not everyday I get to meet someone who's actually successfully undergone a Metamorphosis Complication. You're one of a rare kind."

Somehow, despite Luna's words, Salomé found she couldn't be affronted by the girl who'd stolen the seat beside her. The words themselves would have raised her hackles from most others – she wouldn't allow herself to show it, of course, but even years later Salomé disliked being compared to her old self. She'd experienced such comparisons with negative connotations far too often for her liking. But from Luna… the girl seemed a little addled, her smile a touch dreamy and everything from the tilt of her head to her blinks, was slow and almost dazed. Perhaps she'd hit her head when she was taken as a prisoner? Or, more likely, her head had been hit?

"I suppose you could say that," Salomé murmured. Dropping her gaze down to her hands. Luna still held one of them loosely captured, apparently unwilling to let it go, but even that didn't draw a rise from Salomé as she might have anticipated it would. How very unexpected. Perhaps she'd hit her head at some point too? Or maybe she really was just tired? Her magic certainly felt depleted enough.

Luna seemed to find amusement in Salomé's words for some reason. Her smile quirked slightly, crookedly, and she cocked her head. "Are you not feeling well?"

"What?"

"You don't look very well. I could expect it from what I overheard from the school professors and all of the adults and everything." Luna nodded solemnly, even if her smile remained affixed. "You did a lot of magic. But it's not that, is it? Are you upset about something?"

Salomé found herself staring at Luna. The strange girl that she'd never met before seemed suddenly just a little dangerous for her perceptiveness. Salomé didn't look upset. She knew she didn't look upset because she felt thoughtful, introspective, and on such occasions she'd long ago ensured that her expression was carefully blank. She'd erupted earlier, her rage shaken loose and the pain at having Riddle so cruelly steal her goal away from her shattering something deep inside, but now Salomé was contained. At a loss, confused even, but contained. She would keep that confusion under wraps.

Luna should not have been able to tell. Salomé arched an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes slightly. "What makes you say that? I'm perfectly fine."

Luna was silent for a moment, frustratingly – yet more than that startlingly – apparently not deterred in the slightest. Then she shrugged. "Sorry. I didn't mean to annoy you."

"You're not annoying me," Salomé said truthfully, though she admitted to herself that even had she been irritated she would have professed a lack of such. There was simply a bone in Salomé's body that demanded she oppose any assumption made of her. "I'm merely curious as to what would make you think that."

Luna shrugged once more, leaning back slightly in her seat. "It's just that you seem a little detached. Like you were thinking something very deeply. But you aren't smiling, not even a little bit, so I suppose it isn't happy thoughts you're having." She paused and turned more fully towards Salomé once more. "Is something troubling you?"

Salomé immediately shook her head. "No more than the world usually does."

"Does the world usually trouble you?"

"Always."

"That's very sad," Luna said. She actually sounded regretful.

Shrugging, Salomé carefully extracted her hand from Luna's. She found that she didn't immediately dislike the girl, but she was a little disconcerted by her nonetheless. Luna was little strange, a little too perceptive. "The world tends to be largely sad most of the time."

Luna shook her head. "I don't think so. I think that it's quite a happy place and that generally it's the people who tend to be the sad ones."

"Isn't that the same thing?" Salomé asked in spite of herself.

"Not at all," Luna said with another smile. "I think if you look closely enough, you'll always find something to be happy about. For instance," Luna leaned forwards slightly so that she peered at Nanny, who met her gaze with an unblinking stare of her own. "That water is very cold."

Salomé sat in silence for a moment before realising that Luna wasn't going to say anything more. "And cold water is something to be happy about?"

"Yes." Luna's smile widened as though she was pleased that Salomé had made the connection, regardless of how random it was. "If you're thirsty and hot, there's nothing quite as wonderful as a glass of cold water."

Salomé glanced down at Nanny, meeting the house elves gaze. She wondered if anyone else would perceive the dubiousness of the elf's expression. "I suppose…"

"It's warm in this room," Luna continued. "And it might be a little dirty but it's light enough to see by. And there are lots of people making lots of noise, and healing each other, and smiling at one another, even if they are worried."

"Noisy people are a good thing in your opinion?" Salomé asked, raising her eyebrow once more. "They make you… happy?

Luna nodded fervently. "Very happy. It's always better to have a lot of noise and a lot of people than to be completely alone."

"I think that would depend upon your perspective," Salomé said quietly. "And who those people were."

"That's true. But it makes me happy to be here with these people. They might be upset, or hurt, or a bit scared still and worried about what's going to happen next, but it's a happy thing that we're all here together."

Salomé stared at Luna as that complacent smile settled upon her lips once more. "You appear to be delighted by very simple things."

Luna nodded her immediate agreement. "I am. I think I like little happy things more than big, impressive things most of the time."

"Little happy things? I'd assume you'd experience far more happiness than most people in the world for that opinion," Salomé said, shaking her head slightly.

Luna beamed at her as though she'd made some profound announcement. "Exactly. I do think I'm happy." She tilted her head once more. "What makes you happy, Salomé?"

In an instant, Salomé felt her guard rise. She didn't like people prying, learning secrets about her or making deductions from her words. In many ways the bluntness of Luna's question was better than the subtle peeking, but it still left her discomforted. "Why?"

"Don't worry, I'm just curious," Luna reassured. "If you're upset about something, it always helps to do something that makes you happy. Like drinking a glass of water when you really need it –"

"I believe that would entail relief more than happiness."

"- or talking to someone you like talking to," Luna continued as though Salomé hadn't spoken. "That sort of thing will often help. I think you'd find a lot of people here who'd talk to you if you wanted someone to."

Unconsciously, Salomé drew her gaze around the room. Over the twins – George had patched up the bloody scrape upon his face and Fred was prodding at a bandage just visible above the neck of his collar – to Hermione who had finally finished tending to Ron. She saw Remus and Tonks who'd settled down alongside Sirius in weary relief and the rest of the ex-professors and older Order members who'd finally begun to ease from their rigid stance. Cedric still stood alongside McGonagall as they talked in murmurs, but neither appeared to be quite as tense as they'd been before and more than once Salomé noticed them both cast her a thoughtful glance. Luna was right in that regard; Salomé didn't know nor particularly like some of the people in the room but she thought there might be enough willing to speak to her. Even if it was only to pick her brains.

"Maybe I don't want to talk to anyone," Salomé muttered, if only as something to reply to Luna's words.

To her credit, Luna only shrugged, not deterred in the least by Salomé's curtness. "Then find something that does. When everything seems to fall apart a little bit and you're a little bit lost, usually the best place to start in fixing everything is doing something that you enjoy."

"When you're lost…" Salomé echoed. That at least was accurate.

"Exactly," Luna said emphatically. A hand reached towards Salomé and clasped onto her previously captured fingers once more. She squeezed slightly, enough that Salomé drew her attention towards her in query. "I've heard you like dancing. Maybe you should try just doing that."

"Oh, you happened to hear that did you?" Salomé murmured, though without heat. It would likely be impossible for anyone to be truly angry with Luna. She appeared to be the sort of person who dispersed disgruntlement rather than eliciting it.

Luna nodded. "I've heard you're good at it, too. Maybe that's a good place to start? After everything you've been through, surely the best thing you could do to spit that Lord Riddle in the face would be to be happy. Wouldn't it?"

Salomé started slightly at Luna's words. It was as much for their unexpectedness, the insight that Luna demonstrated in apparently knowing _exactly_ what Salomé was thinking about, as the actual words themselves. She wasn't usually one to start, to flinch or show any such weakness, but that…

A moment later, Luna was dropping Salomé's hand and rising from her seat to hasten across the room as though she'd been kicked into standing. She made it to Ginny's side just as the other girl nearly slumped entirely from her own seat, catching her with a smile and a word inaudible to Salomé's ears. Ginny blinked dazedly before sparing Luna a weary smile of what looked like gratitude.

Salomé was left to stare at the strange girl who had left her so abruptly. Her parting words rung slightly in Salomé's mind, taking root immediately almost without her realisation. How unexpected, to be so drawn from her thoughts by the careless – or perhaps not careless at all – words of a stranger. To have her melancholy prodded slightly by something that appeared nothing if not a simple observation.

Slowly, Salomé reached for the glass Nanny still held, accepting it with a distracted word of thanks. As she sipped, she thought. What Luna had suggested was easier said then done, to be certain, but even so, perhaps there was some merit to such a suggestion.

* * *

McGonagall's sigh drew Cedric's attention back from where he'd glanced towards Salomé once more. The elderly witch looked weary. More than that, she looked exhausted, pained and bowed beneath the weight of the world. She still kept her back straight, however, her jaw set and shoulders fixed as though she thought maintaining such a stance would scare the trials of the world away from her. In McGonagall's case at least, she was generally right.

"Thank you, Cedric," she said finally, offering something that wasn't quite a smile but Cedric accepted as one anyone. "Your help has been most beneficial."

Cedric shrugged. "It's the least I can do. No one else was there."

"Unfortunately," McGonagall murmured with a nod, and not for the first time her eyes clouded over just slightly in grief. Cedric recognised it as arising in the memory of Dumbledore's death.

It had been but minutes since McGonagall had called him to her side to request to know what had happened. She asked what had become of Riddle, of Dumbledore, of what they were to expect. Until that point, Cedric had accepted that it simply wasn't his place to partake in the proceedings of the Order and offer his opinion on their matters, of how best to approach the situation that would ensue thenceforth. For it would; there was no way that Riddle's death, a death that Cedric was still only just coming to fully understand was real, would be the end of it. There was his following, his Death Eaters, the Apprentice Wesley Forbes who had gotten away. There would be the political upheaval at having the puppeteer behind the Minister for Magic vanished.

Someone would rise to take his place, Cedric expected. Perhaps several someone's if the Order and those who strove for it were both to be considered. Cedric knew the political war was far from over but for him at least, for a time perhaps, his role appeared to have ended.

McGonagall would likely request his assistance in the future, which he would provide to the best of his ability. The Aurors of the DMLE may seek him once more, might continue to request his return as they hadn't ceased to do since he'd left their ranks. But Cedric wouldn't return. He didn't want to be an Auror, not anymore. He felt no drive for it any longer, not after the whole purpose behind his becoming just that was fulfilled. He'd found Salomé. That was enough.

There was still so much to be done, but Cedric wanted no part of it. He'd been embedded in the war for what felt like far too long now, and for reasons differing to others. Cedric knew himself well enough to know that, while he did dispute the prejudice, the discrimination, and the subjugation of Muggles and Muggleborns, his anger was secondary to his true motivation.

Cedric had long known he wasn't as good of a person as most people considered him to be.

"How are you, Cedric?"

Lifting his gaze from where it had dropped slightly, Cedric met McGonagall eye for eye. She was a tall woman, nearly as tall as he was, and seemed taller for her strength of characters even in her ageing frame. Cedric would always admire her for that. Even with everything that had happened, even with the weight of Dumbledore's death upon her shoulders that was clearly sitting heavily, McGonagall was strong. If Cedric were to consider anyone an appropriate leader to continue with the war effort, to fight after the primary battle had ended, it would be she.

He offered a small, grateful smile. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Really?" McGonagall arched an eyebrow and somehow managed to look just like the old professor he'd had from years gone by. In spite of everything… "You've been through a trial, Cedric. I know you're strong, but no one could endure what you've been through without effect. A confrontation with Riddle himself…" She trailed off, closing her eyes briefly and shaking her head before continuing in a nearly inaudible murmur. "To think he's really gone."

Cedric could only nod at that. He'd had to remind himself of as much almost every minute since leaving the remains of Riddle Manor. It had helped to discuss with McGonagall, to describe what had truly happened and to speculate with her on the _how_. That perhaps Riddle had simply pushed himself too much. That he'd fallen beneath the weight of his own magic. That his soul had been too weakened by first the creation of his Horcruxes and then their subsequent destruction. Cedric didn't voice it aloud – he didn't want to say the words and see them hurt McGonagall – but he suspected that Dumbledore's murder had something to do with Riddle's subsequent demise as well. Horcruxes were supposed to be created from killing, weren't they? Even unintentionally, Cedric suspected that the magical cost of killing Dumbledore had likely shaken what remained of Riddle's wavering strength.

"You'll come to me, won't you?" McGonagall asked. Her gaze had hardened, turned insistent without Cedric realising. "Should you need anything, you'll come to me? You've done more for this war than many, Cedric, even if you don't realise it."

Cedric offered another small smile. "Thank you, Professor," was his only reply, even if he suspected himself unlikely to take her up on the offer. It was generous, yes, and if anyone could help him in times of need it would be the Order, and yet… Cedric didn't think it right to rely upon them. He had worked alongside them in the past weeks, but before that he had made little effort to hide the fact that his loyalties lay elsewhere. Moody had certainly expressed on a number of occasions how Salomé and hence Cedric weren't 'trustworthy', weren't 'theirs' and as such couldn't be relied upon. Cedric could complain. He would agree to that much: should the decision be between the Order and Salomé, he would have no hesitation in his choice. Even with his friends, his parents, those he'd known for years to act as incentive, for some unknown yet pervasive reason, Cedric knew his loyalty lay with Salomé. It always would.

Without his intention, as it so often did, Cedric found himself glancing towards Salomé once more. The Lovegood girl had taken herself to her side, and to Cedric surprise they were actually talking. That was certainly a good thing. Salomé had barely spoken a word since Riddle had been destroyed and Cedric had watched as she'd rapidly fallen into herself, into her anger and frustration and mournful loss at having her one goal torn from her grasp and shredded to irreparable pieces. Salomé didn't express it in words, nor even in expression, but Cedric knew it to be true. Her face would become blank, schooled, almost aloofly condescending. She would gaze upon those around her with hooded eyes as though considering each in turn, her back straight and chin raised just slightly and not a hint of humour upon her lips. It was a carefully wrought mask, and Cedric could see through it as he doubted many could. That she had lifted that mask just slightly in order to talk to Lovegood was miraculous in itself.

"How is she?"

McGonagall's question once more drew Cedric's attention back towards her. She had followed Cedric's gaze, staring at Salomé and Lovegood with a touch of frown and slow consideration. "As well as she can be," Cedric replied. He didn't think Salomé was alright, not in the slightest, but Cedric would abide by and assist her in her efforts to appear otherwise.

"She's angry?" McGonagall asked, glancing towards him. Her fingers tugged just slightly at the sleeves of her singed robes, almost as though she were nervous. "Because she was not given the chance to kill Riddle herself?" Cedric remained silent but McGonagall seemed to interpret his silence correctly nonetheless. She sighed, shaking her head. "I never would have expected such bloodthirstiness from Harry before. So much has changed."

Cedric bit back on the rise of defensive anger that welled within him at McGonagall's words. He couldn't rebuke her, not now. No matter how much he wanted to, how much he needed to proclaim that Salomé wasn't her past, that people needed to stop comparing her to that past, and that even filled with rage and sadness and loss she was her own person and that was an _incredible_ person. He bit back on such words because McGonagall and everyone around her was weary, heartsore, and attempting to patch together a feeble plan for the future while struggling to remain undaunted by that future.

Cedric only shook his head. "Maybe. It's hard to tell with Salomé sometimes."

"You would know," McGonagall said. "Although, she does appear to be holding herself together well. I had thought she'd be somehow different after our rescue attempt. After Riddle's death. But really, it's as though she hasn't changed at all. She's the same as she always was."

Cedric couldn't agree to that. He knew that Salomé wasn't the same, wouldn't and couldn't be the same, even after only hearing a few brief words from her in the past hour. Even with the façade she attempted to maintain that seemed to fool most of the world it was apparent to him. Salomé would be changed, and Cedric would be there for her the entire way. They would be there for each other, for really, though she might not realise it, Salomé's mere presence meant more to Cedric than she could ever imagine. Just remaining alongside her, having Salomé as something to hold onto, was all Cedric felt he would need. Perhaps ever.

So he didn't refute McGonagall. He didn't call her a fool for her assumption – for her incorrect assumption. "Perhaps you're right. But even if not, then I'll help her." He said nodded slightly, turning to glance over his shoulder towards Salomé once more. The Lovegood girl had risen abruptly from her seat and crossed the room towards Ginny's side where she'd been before, leaving Salomé staring with a vaguely thoughtful expression in her wake. As Cedric watched, she reached down seemingly unconsciously to the glass Nanny held at her side and raised it in her hands. Thoughtful. Well, that was certainly better than the countless walls she'd been erecting since the destruction of the Manor.

"You'll stay at her side then, Cedric?" McGonagall asked, briefly capturing his attention once more. Her eyebrows had risen slightly, curiously. "Even if the war and the need to do so no longer remains?"

Cedric bowed his head in acknowledgement of the inevitable. "Of course. I always will."

McGonagall shook her head slightly, a smile playing on her lips. It was a weary smile, but to Cedric felt genuine nonetheless. "You're an odd pair the two of you," was all she murmured in reply. Cedric thought she spoke more to herself than to him.

He took her words as a dismissal however, and, with a slight bow of farewell and a word of excusal, he turned and made his way back towards Salomé. Settling himself into the seat at her side once more, Cedric allowed himself a small sigh. It was the warmest part in the room right beside the fireplace, almost too warm, but Cedric didn't mind. Salomé hadn't seemed inclined to move since he'd urged her towards the corner so he wouldn't force her to.

They sat in silence for a long moment, Salomé staring across the room with persisting thoughtfulness, hands cupped around her glass and intermittently taking a sip. Cedric spared her a sidelong glance but otherwise similarly maintained his detached staring. At his friends, at the Order members who seemed to be gradually deflating from their battle rush, at the ex-hostages who still looked a little shaken but were recovering enough to smile and offer their thanks, even to slump into sleep in some cases. Cedric was relieved for that fact. It was true that the prisoners hadn't been his priority when they'd infiltrated Riddle Manor, but he was glad they were alright. Other than a few injuries, a painful amount of material that would fill nightmares and the effects of brief torture that appeared to have been largely – at least temporarily – shunted to the side, they were alright. They _were_ alright. That was the main thing.

Cedric even met his father's eyes across the room, nodding briefly in acknowledgement. He'd barely spoken a word to either of his parents over the past months, though it was his father who was the more active in his objection. They'd been disapproving of Cedric's loyalties, his actions and his dismissal of the Order and their regime. But after the night they'd just had, Cedric couldn't bring himself to hold onto his anger. Not for the moment anyway, even if it did happen to return in future. It simply wasn't worth it.

A slight weight on his shoulder drew Cedric's gaze towards his side. To his surprise that he barely managed to conceal, Salomé had shifted in her seat so that she was leaning against him. Not heavily, and not obviously, but in a definitely deliberate fashion. Almost as though she was seeking more the simplicity of touch than any particular support. Cedric almost couldn't breathe for the unexpectedness of it. Salomé had never deliberately touched him in her life. He hadn't expressly wanted her to, hadn't needed her to, and certainly not when she hadn't felt comfortable doing so, but as he sat in silence with her leaning just slightly against his shoulder, gaze still affixed on the room at large, he felt warmth rise in his chest. Warm and glowing and yes, surprised, but also tentatively delighted.

Even if nothing else had changed, that one gesture was certainly profound enough to compensate.

Cedric didn't move. He didn't lean further into Salomé or offer her an arm of affectionate contact as most friends would usually appreciate. He didn't move at all, in fact, but remained still and silent and just letting the girl at his side be. Such a simple thing, and yet it felt like something so vast. So accepting. So _different._

Finally, Salomé spoke. Her voice was a murmur, barely audible, and muffled slightly by the glass that she held to her lips. Not to drink but simply resting, as though she contemplated doing so. "Cedric?"

Cedric glanced down towards her, keeping his expression mild and as nonchalant yet vaguely interested as he could manage. He needn't have worried for she was only staring glassy-eyed and distantly at the room. "Hm?"

"Will you play for me? I… I'd like to dance."

Cedric blinked down at her, struggling to mask his surprise. Salomé had never intentionally touched him before, but even more profoundly than that she had never expressly requested anything of him before either. Or never quite so genuinely, at least; it had always been as an order before, or in jest, or teasing as had become more frequent of late. Cedric had to bite back the redoubled upwelling of delight for that simple phrase. "Of course. Anything you'd like." It was a further struggle to keep his words neutral, as passive and unremarkable as he could in such a starkly remarkable situation.

Without another word they both rose to their feet. Following in Salomé's wake, they slipped from the basement with a dutiful Nanny following in their wake. Cedric didn't think that anyone would miss them.


	18. The Crow, the Owl and the Dove

The Hall of the Arts was primarily a single roomed building. A single room at least three stories in height but not divided into floors, with arching ceilings in gold and white and pale walls that reflected the dancing lights illuminating the room. Within were spaced the tables of diners, those seated for the performance and partaking only sparingly of the delicacies and champagnes that were offered by golden-robed waiters as they swept near invisibly through their midst.

The Hall was the grandest stage for professional performances in Wizarding Britain, was large enough to hold nearly a two thousand individuals circled around each table, and that night it was filled to the brim and absented of many woebegone individuals mournfully regretting that they had not responded faster to the announcement of the ticket release. That they had not slept outside of the ticket box overnight for the chance to purchase one such coveted ticket. For regardless of the quarterly occurrence of the performing troupe, audience seating would always be sorely sought after.

In that hall, on that night, not a soul breathed. Not a one murmured a word, not even in appreciation, nor even seemed to notice the offerings of the waiters, for the performance – it was enchanting to watch. It was captivating to listen to. Hermione knew she wasn't the only one who couldn't take her eyes from the raised dais in the centre of the room. She couldn't shake her gaze even momentarily from the troupe playing there, even if she didn't glance around herself to check. There was something about it all, the dancing, the singing, the playing… and throughout it all, flaring in alternating colours in graphic depictions of the words sung, sweeping around the dancer in gossamer ribbons and rippling across the thrumming and pressing fingers of the musicians, the magic.

Synchrynomancy was an art. A particularly difficult art that many dedicated their lives to studying. Hermione was lucky enough to see the troupe weave their magic on a frequent occasion, often exclusively, but she never grew tired of it. She could never weary of the sight of that magic, of what it did to the sound of a voice, of how is enhanced and enriched the thrums of the instruments so that each chord seemed to pluck at her nerves. Hermione would have closed her eyes to savour that sound, that feeling, but to do so would forsake the sights she was afforded. So instead she watched. She watched with the same captivated eyes as every other audience member.

The singer swayed gently to her own music, to the lulling of her voice. She stood at the edge of the dais, resplendent in white upon the slightly raised platform barely large enough for two feet to comfortably step, and she sung. Her voice had a warm huskiness to it, a warmth made physical by the synchyromancy that she cast, and she seemed to bathe in her own words, eyes closed as she uttered the repeated chorus of, _"Wake… wake, my darling… you'll never see such a sight as this again, so waken to behold…_ " A lullaby couldn't have been more hypnotic.

The harpist plucked with his head bowed, eyes similarly closed. His fingers fluttered along the metallic strings of his instrument, breathing forth a chiming melody that undulated to the sound of his singer's voice. With each motion of his fingers, a shimmer of gold sparked from the strings, flying into the air to dance in tendrils and carry the resonating music on escaping wings.

The notes of the pianist rose to join those golden birds, silver and white and sparkling like a shower of raindrops, illuminating the dais in an even more vibrant glow than that which the Hall afforded it. His fingers danced along the piano keys as fluid as swelling water, and with each touch seemed to emulate the undulations of the sea itself, humming in a calming breath of salty air.

Yet he wasn't looking at his hands. He wasn't looking at his sheet music, nor even fallen into the close-eyed introspection that his companions were. As always, as Hermione knew he always did, he had eyes only for his dancer.

Hermione could hardly blame him for the fact. Not when she too found herself so enchanted by each sweeping spin, each flutter of dark skirts and curling twists of arms overhead. Even without the mesmerising magic that coiled around her, that lifted her as if upon wings and cradled her like a lover, Hermione thought she would have been hard pressed to look anywhere but at the dancer that seemed to embody Dance itself.

" _Wake… wake, my darling… you've slept far too long…"_

They sang, they played, they danced with such familiarity, such synchrony, that had Hermione not known it she wouldn't have fathomed that they had been the Fyres of the Phoenix performing troupe for barely five years. That of those years, they as a group had only truly been acknowledged Synchyromancers for two of them. She suspected that many in the audience were dubious to that fact.

_"_ _Waken… behold the beauty shaped before you…"_

It was the second time that Hermione had seen their show. As one of their closest friends, she was provided tickets whenever she pleased. For once, she felt no guilt for stealing the seats of another. She and Ron, and quite often their other friends – Fred and George, Seamus and Dean, Luna especially, and Sirius, and Remus and Tonks – all frequented the performances. Given the opportunity, who could pass them up?

 _"_ _I've a sight to show you… one you'll rarely see…_ "

Ginny's voice seemed barely above a whisper yet Hermione knew that every pair of ears in the hall could hear her. Neville's fingers slowed, loosened, gentled in their plucking but the melody still resounded. Cedric's piano echoed in a resounding sigh as his fingers momentarily stilled on the keys. And Salomé… with a sweeping turn, a raising of her arms once more and a spring from her toes, spread her wings and arced into the air. The purple-blue-white magic that shrouded her like wafting curtains, that captured her for a moment, suspended, seemed to glow almost blindingly.

_"_ _Don't look away… for in a breath it disappears…"_

Hermione couldn't look away.

* * *

"Ginny! Ginny, over here!"

At the sound of Seamus' voice, Ginny turned from the pair of young women who gazed at her with shining eyes, clutching the pair of gloves they'd requested she sign for them as though they were a gift from Merlin himself. Honestly, gloves? Some people could choose such impractical ornaments to be signed. Still, Ginny could hardly complain. There was something so heart-warming about invoking such a response from others. Ginny had always loved performing, despite the bashfulness that had initially arisen whenever she sung.

In the past, that was. It didn't afflict her so much anymore. Now, singing along with her magic, with Neville and Cedric and Salomé… it was impossible to feel anything but blessed when lost in that.

"Excuse me for a moment," Ginny murmured towards the two women with a small smile. Both only nodded vigorously, adoringly, and Ginny couldn't help but let her smile widen when she turned to make her way towards a waving Seamus.

It had to be she who took the steps. The crowd that milled around Ginny, around Neville and Salomé and Cedric when they'd descended from the dais, wouldn't make way for anyone else. Yet as though Ginny were magically parting the sea of people, they stepped respectfully aside for her to approach her friends. She found that she quite liked that effect. She'd have to request of her friends that they prevent her from letting her head grow too big. Not her brother's, of course – that would be dangling a carrot far too tempting for them, she was sure – but Hermione perhaps. Or Luna. Yes, definitely Luna. People didn't seem to realise quite how level-headed her vague friend could be.

Seamus looped an arm around Ginny's neck as soon as she was within reaching distance, drawing her towards the rest of her friends and brothers and her parents with a gentle tug. Her smile was met with beaming grins, and expressions and exclamations of admiration and pride and even, in the case of Luna, a little approval. Ginny didn't know why Luna would consider herself the one to source such approval but it was hardly the first time that she'd seen it in her friend.

"Beautiful, Ginny dear, just beautiful," her mother tutted, nudging Seamus aside in a way that was impossible to quite avoid to plant a kiss on Ginny's cheek. "No matter how many times I see you and hear you, you never fail to amaze me."

"Thanks, Mum," Ginny said with a further widening of her smile.

"Didn't think you'd be able to make your way through the masses of fans," George said through his toothy grin. Or nearly shouted, as he had to in order to be heard over the buzzing of conversations around them. "Our sister, the famous singer."

"Don't let it go to your head, Gin," Fred added, as though he'd been listening in to her earlier thoughts.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "As if I could with you two hanging around." They both simply nodded in response.

The Fyre of the Phoenix was Ginny's life. She lived it. She breathed it. Once but a hobby, a wistful longing, singing had become Ginny's everything. Singing alongside her troupe had become her world. It had taken years of rigorous study, sleepless nights when she simply couldn't stop, even when her voice began to waver, before she had even managed to perform the magical-music that had first been presented to her as a possibility by Salomé what now seemed so long ago. She would always be grateful to Salomé for that.

Since, the world had been her oyster. True, it might be superior of her to consider as much, but Ginny often speculated that there were few Wizarding communities in the world who hadn't heard of the Fyre of the Phonenix. Synchyromancy had been a dying study until they – until Salomé – had rebirthed it. It was almost startling sometimes to realise just what an enormous trend their initiation had spearheaded. Struggling groups were arising everywhere, and not just in the musical and dancing arts. Ginny had seen a synchyromagus painter spread his art across the Boardwalk just outside Diagon Alley. It had been nearly two years since it had arisen from an unknown source and its beauty, the tangible magic it seemed to radiate and glisten with, bereft anyone of any thoughts of erasing it.

Ginny loved it. She loved the fact that she and her friends had reborn something so beautiful, so intricate and so perfect to behold, even in the amateur attempts of many. It filled her with fierce delight when a fan called her 'inspiring', when a budding young singer mimicked a few lines of one of her songs, when she was approached in the street by an admirer who simply wished to offer their appreciation of her skill. Such appraisals and compliments may grow tiresome in the future, but for now Ginny couldn't imagine it. She revelled in it far too deeply.

"… think I should go and save him?" Seamus was saying, his words barely audible over the embrace that Sirius was currently wrapping Ginny in. Strangely enough, Sirius almost more than anyone else seemed touched by the performances of Ginny's troupe.

Ginny glanced towards Seamus questioningly, moving automatically to Tonks who offered her usual jostling and almost clumsy hug and kiss on the cheek. "Who?"

Seamus jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Neville. He looks swamped."

Ginny followed the direction of his gesture and couldn't help but smile fondly. Neville loved to play – his harp, his guitar, his lute; he was a strings man – but he wasn't quite so taken with the fame and publicity as she was. A dozen steps away, Ginny could make out his familiar stiff awkwardness as he flushed and accepted the applause of a group of middle-aged witches and wizards that looked old enough to be his parents.

Before Ginny could reply, Seamus had turned and attempted to dive into the crowds in Neville's direction. He was making remarkably good progress in swimming across the distance considering the density of the crowding and the unconscious barrier system. Dean, rolling his eyes but grinning nonetheless, shared a glance with Ron before shaking his head. "I'll go and fish out Seamus then when he drowns in his attempt," he said before turning and similarly struggling in Neville's direction.

"Where's Salomé and Cedric?" Hermione asked, raising her voice to be heard over a particularly loud outburst at their side. An outburst that Ginny was momentarily distracted by – it was better sometimes to acknowledge the fans immediately so that they would pass on their way – before turning towards her friend. She subsequently glanced around herself for Salomé and Cedric, even though she already knew she wouldn't find them. They always disappeared after a performance.

"They'll be around," she offered vaguely.

"They've buggered off again, haven't they?" Ron said. It was less of a question and more an exasperated statement. "They always do that, don't they?"

"Do what?" Ginny's mother asked.

"Quite honestly, I can't blame them," Sirius said. "I don't think I'd like all these people fawning over me."

"Speak for yourself, Sirius," Fred said.

"I will. And apparently for Salomé and Cedric, too."

"You'd think they'd just up and admit it, already," George sighed with mock long-suffering.

"Admit it?" Tonks asked curiously.

"Come on, it's pretty obvious."

"Impossible to miss when you're around them so much," Fred tacked onto the end of George's words.

"What?" Tonks asked.

Hermione hummed, a sound that somehow managed to be heard over the raised voices around them. "I'm not so sure about that, George."

Ron nodded in agreement at her side. "If it was going to happen, it would have already happened by now."

"Maybe it has and you just haven't noticed?" George suggested.

"Nope, I'd have noticed."

"Unlikely," Fred smirked.

"I would have. 'Sides, it's not like they'd keep it a secret."

"Wouldn't you?" Sirius asked.

"Can someone please spell it out to me plainly?" Tonks interrupted, her hair darkening a slightly deeper shade of pink in frustration. "I think I might be interpreting this wrong."

"No, you're not," Fred said, winking at her conspiratorially. "They're entirely in love."

"Eyes for none other than each other." George nodded.

"They are not," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. Ginny could only agree. They'd had just that conversation more times than she could count.

"Yes they are," Fred said.

"No they're not. They're not _in_ love."

"Have you asked them?"

"It's none of your business," Sirius said with a scowl, folding his arms across his chest. He was still – and always would be – stoutly protective of his goddaughter.

"Actually, it is," George said, wagging a finger in the air. "We've got a bet, you see. For when they'll finally come out to the world."

"Mine's set for Christmas," Fred added.

"They're not bloody well in love," Ron grumbled, shaking his head. "Just ask Luna."

As one, all eyes, Ginny's included, turned towards Luna. It might have been a ridiculous notion to suspect that Luna of all people would know such things and that she would have any particular perceptiveness in that regard. But even so, Ginny knew she wasn't the only one who had faith in her friend. In this regard at least. Such things were just accepted of a Lovegood.

Luna blinked owlishly as though startled, turning from where she'd been gazing out across the room. She looked the picture of unearthly vagueness in that moment, hair light and fluffily floating like a halo around her head, shooting star earrings releasing little bursts of dissipating glitter whenever they swung and the upturned thimble on her necklace snicking against the cluster of crystals and what looked like glass mosaic pieces upon the neckline of her dress. "Hm?"

"Are they?" Fred asked, eyebrows rising suggestively.

"In love?" George finished.

Luna blinked once more, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Salomé and Cedric?"

"Of course."

Her smile widened. "Of course they love each other. More than anyone else in the world."

"Yes, but are they _in_ love," George emphasised to the sound of Ginny's mother's mumbled chiding that, "George, it's really none of our business". Ginny noticed she still looked at Luna as expectantly as the rest of them however.

Luna only blinked slowly once more. Blinked, and then smiled a beaming, genuinely amused smile. "I have no idea!"

Ginny couldn't help but chuckle at the groans of her brothers, at Sirius' snort and her mother's sigh, at her father's similar amusement and Hermione's, "I told you so". She thought that Luna's words summed up the situation perfectly.

No one would ever quite know about Salomé and Cedric.

* * *

Salomé balanced on the balustrade, toes curling on the edge of the smoothed sandstone and gripping just slightly. The cool evening air was a welcome relief from the heady warmth of indoor, the breeze swirling through her skirts and tugging at her hair to brush against her skin in a gentle caress.

She was away. Away from the eyes that she never really needed when she danced, from the adoration, from the lights and the stage. Away from the noise of the audience that chattered distantly behind her, through the visual barrier she'd constructed to redirect prying eyes from the little balcony. The memory of the music, of her friends' music, sang like a chorusing melody in her mind. Salomé closed her eyes momentarily to simple revel in the feeling, letting herself sway slightly, just a little…

A hand curling gently around her ankle drew her eyes open once more. Salomé glanced down to where Cedric he stood at her side. He hadn't moved from where he'd been standing since they'd retreated onto the balcony shortly after the performance. He wasn't even looking up at her, his gaze trained upon the middle distance with mild attentiveness, elbow on the balustrade and chin propped in his hand as the other held Salomé steady.

Cedric always accompanied her away from the people. Always it was just him. Sometimes she wondered if it was that old protectiveness, that loyalty that had grown within him years ago, or whether he needed the escape as much as she. Perhaps it was a little of both.

In the coolness of outdoors there was relief. Salomé saw that in Cedric's hooded gaze, in the slight easing of the perfect posture while at the piano, in his casual lean upon the balustrade. He looked comfortable in a way that shouldn't have been possible in such cleanly cut robes, the perfect coifing of his hair mussed just slightly as it always was, prey to Cedric's ruffling as soon as their performance was finished. Salomé liked it more when it wasn't so perfect.

"You don't need to hold me, you know."

"I know," Cedric murmured in reply. Even so, his hand didn't let go.

Salomé barely bothered to attempt to withhold the small smile that touched her lips. She turned once more towards the night, towards the spreading grounds that undulated from the Hall of the Arts in rippling waves darkened like the ocean in the night. Her gaze drifted downwards. "I could catch myself if I fell."

"I know you could." Cedric's hand still didn't let go.

"And even if I didn't, it's unlikely that such a fall would truly do any damage. I'm not made of glass, you know."

"I know."

The fell into silence for a moment. Salomé swept the tendrils of her hair from her eyes as they were captured by the breeze before dropping her hand once more. Her fingers brushed lightly across the top of Cedric's head, grazing through his curls. She would never have considered how soft his hair could be before touching it, never have contemplated that to do so would be so strangely delightful. "You'd climb down after me if I did," she said, more of a statement of understanding than a question.

"I'd jump down after you," Cedric replied. He didn't turn his head towards her, but Salomé could feel his eyes lift nonetheless. Her smile unfurled just a little more.

"I know."

Cedric didn't need to hold her and he would never need to, but not for a second did he loosen his fingers. Not even for a second did he let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was the last chapter! Thank you everyone for reading this fic! And to all of my lovely commenters. I hope you liked the story and, if you did, you'll take a second to comment it and let me know your thoughts. Questions? Speculations? Feel free to ask or let me know and I'll be more than happy to talk to you about it!


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